Drifters
by Patchyman
Summary: A band of mercenaries, sweeping through Mossflower. An archer fox, wanting nothing more than the riches promised to him. And a change in the winds of fate that will leave him forever marked. Rated for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hey everyone! Yes, I'm still alive. Well, for the most part. Senior year is kicking into high gear, and I've been hard pressed to find time for anything not involving school work/college stuff/working/everything else that is entailed in life nowadays. _**

**_But, I finally got something up and running! I've been mulling over this particular concept for a little while, and finally decided to pull the trigger just a short time ago. I want everyone here to know that this first chapter is really just a preliminary thing, and the response I get will dictate where I go from here. I can't really afford to put a large chunk of time into this story, but it will still be as well-written and developed as I can make it. _**

**_Anyway, I'm not going to spoil anything in the description here, so all of you can be the judge on that. Read, enjoy, and please, please, PLEASE REVIEW! _**

**_P.S. - Doors of Fire and Whence we Came ARE NOT, I repeat ARE NOT dead. Far from it. Right now I'm taking a break from actually writing in them and instead stepping back and looking over the story concepts. Just thought ya'll would like to know._**

* * *

><p>It was on a frigid, moonless, and rain-laden night that a large column of beasts doggedly made their way along the muddy path. At least five score in all, a smattering of foxes, stoats, weasels, ferrets, rats, and even the miscellaneous otter or squirrel. The low-hanging trees overhead failed to help in their futile attempts to stay dry. If anything, the drooping boughs seemed to funnel the water down onto their heads. Paws had long-since gone numb from the cold and wet. Fur was slickened with mud and grime. Sickness was abundant and thriving in the conditions. Many of those marching could only think of one name for their predicament: Hell.<p>

But this was more than a wandering band of slack-jawed vermin soldiers under the harsh whip of some egotistical maniac overlord, or a gang of marauding pillagers. Though their equipment might have been haphazard and lacking in some areas, their uniforms filthy and unkempt, and their gazes long and unfocused, it didn't take an expert's eye to see what motivated these creatures to suffer through such strife.

They were mercenaries: paw-loose warriors who sold their swords, axes, bows, darts, or whatever arms they could cobble together to the highest bidder. Though they lacked official leadership, it had always been assumed that every important matter would be voted on by the whole company, and acted on as such. Whether that was accepting contracts, deciding which direction to undertake, or a similar issue, the two hundred or so beasts-for-hire were assured a role in every decision made. This system, of course, had often lead to heated arguments and broken snouts or swollen lips on more than one occasion.

As the contingent marched on, too tired to complain to any great extent, two beasts appeared out of the mirky haze just ahead. They were scouts, sent forward from the main column to find shelter for the night. A weasel and stoat, both experienced soldiers, held a brief conversation with a few of those at the head of the column. After a few nods, the weasel cupped both paws around his mouth and shouted to be heard over the torrential rain and wind. "Clearing in the woods up ahead, two hundred paces! All those for setting up camp?"

A resounding chorus of "Aye!" went up from the crowd. Desperate for any chance to escape the pounding weather, every beast gathered what little strength they had remaining and surged forward. They ignored the splattering mud and water on their legs, too invested in the possibility of a dry hollow to crawl into.

It took the troupe only a matter of minutes to find the small expanse of level ground nestled just a few paces off the main path. Covered in dead leaves and mud puddles as it was, everybeast was grateful for a reprieve. Wool-fabric tents quickly appeared from waxed haversacks, designed to repel moisture as best they could. It was decided by each beast present that fires were permitted, as the only creatures insane enough to travel through a storm such as this were the mercenaries themselves.

It was unspoken code that the band segregated itself by occupation. The experienced sword and blade fighters set up to one side, while the cooks, scribes, and other assorted crewbeasts went to another. Cobblers, blacksmiths, healers, scouts, and archers followed suit.

Tucked against a chunk of forest, a small encampment of only three score beasts or so lifted their tents and desperately attempted to light fires. Some were successful, and soon there were a number of smoky, roiling blazes going. In their attempts to ward off the gloominess and bitter cold, some began to sing and play small instruments while the rest tried to maintain some semblance of normal conversation.

"I still swear by the ol' ash," a ferret was saying, huddling miserably under his cloak while water dripped off his muzzle. "Long, straight trunk, don't usually get no stinkin' knots, and they grow like bloody weeds around these parts."

A squirrel, the majority of which were in the same camp, scoffed. "Ash? You ever tried chopping down one of those monsters just to find the grubs have gotten to it? I'll have none of that. Birch is the best, by far. Spine weight's almost always the same, so long as you cut 'em the same width." He turned to a figure sitting against a tree trunk close by, whose shape flickered in the sputtering twilight. "Go on, Shiloh, tell 'em I'm right."

The ruddy firelight revealed the creature for just a moment. It was a fox, dirty and disheveled as any of them. His soiled white tunic had turned almost the same color as the tattered green jerkin fastened across his chest, and his soaking copper fur was just as dull. He looked up from the half-finished piece of whittling in his paw, tapping it with the worn but battle-sharp knife in the other. He took a moment before speaking, with the voice of a beast only a quarter of the way through his seasons, but with more experience than most gained in their lifetimes. "Are you two maids still arguing over that arrow shaft scuffle? By the seasons, you just won't let it go."

Thorben, the squirrel, threw another bundle of large twigs on the sputtering fire to keep it going. "Come on, mate, we all know you've got that 'secret' arrow wood you go on about. What is it?"

Shiloh chuckled to himself, turning his eyes back to the chunk of wood in his grasp. "And _you _know that I'm not telling you scurvy-ridden dogs anything. I found them by myself, so you'll have to do the same."

The ferret, who went by the name of Harsk, snorted. "Not in this luckless forest. 's all pine an' evergreen. Not good fer nothin', more so in this downpour."

Most everybeast agreed with a murmured "Aye", or "'struth" before falling back into silence. The odious conditions didn't help to stir up conversation or merriment. The majority of them simply huddled under whatever meager shelter had been erected, trying desperately to keep as dry as possible. It turned out to be a fruitless endeavor.

It had been nearly an hour of shivering, sleepless rest before the sounds of pawsteps squelching in the mud and armored links clacking together interrupted the rain's cacophony. Shiloh didn't bother to even lift his eyelid, much less his head, although a few beasts did at the approaching warrior. The fox silently ground his teeth together, aware of what was coming next.

"Lookit this sorry lot! Rottin' shame, seein' all these beasts just lyin 'ere, sufferin' so gallantly. Mayhap I should contribute some dry firewood, or a blanket, or...oh, my mistake, they're just a bunch a' cads. Archers, by the seasons! Why, they're the scum of the earth! Pity some of 'em don't just drop dead from the cold, eh?"

Krieger Macepaw was a brutal specimen of a weasel. From the tip of his twisted nose, to the end of his charcoal-hued tail, his sinewy and muscled body was covered in armor. Its shoulders and elbows were adorned with blunt spikes, along with the back of his gauntlets. And riding on his hip in a thick leather strap was the weapon with which he had made true his namesake: A terrifyingly gargantuan mace, studded with sharpened hooks and spikes along its spherical top. It could crush bone, splinter armor, and destroy any weapon thrown against it with no more than a flick of the arm.

Standing next to him was a young page, a rat hardly out of childhood. He held a large piece of cloth hoisted on a pole, protecting his master from the maelstrom. Macepaw loomed over the ramshackle group of fighters, his gaze mocking under the hooded helmet. Krieger was known for having a low opinion of almost everybeast save for him, but especially for the yeobeasts. "So, ya repulsive miscreants, 'ow many 'ave ye slain recently? Ten a piece? Twenty? Probably laughed as ye did it, filthy bunch of worms!"

Nobeast spoke, despite the roiling hatred beginning to rise in their guts. Krieger had been personal friends the original founders of the troupe, and therefore held more sway than the average creature. And while he couldn't assume any sort of command, he possessed enough clout to change the minds of those he wished to bend, or even kill those who got in his way and get away scot-free.

He sneered contemptuously and kicked at a nearby mud puddle, spraying them with the slop. As before, none of the archers spoke a word. Krieger spat at them. "Low-lives, mud-sucking parasites! Not an ounce of honor 'twixt the score of ye, I'd wager. Bet ye enjoy killin'..."

"You actually want us to believe you know anything in the way of honor, Macepaw?"

The weasel's face darkened as he met Shiloh's gaze. "Shut yore trap, fox, or all shut it for ye! I don't hide in the forest, pickin' off beasts with arrows and runnin' when the fighting gets tough. I fight 'em face-t'-face, tooth and claw, bringin' down..."

"Bringing down creatures who have already surrendered?" Shiloh's face didn't betray so much as a hint of emotion as he went on, still focused on the carving work in his paw. "Doesn't seem too honorable to me, slaying a whole squad of mice and squirrels after they'd laid down arms and come to us under a white flag of truce."

A few beasts couldn't stop themselves from inhaling sharply, wary of the rising fury on Macepaw's face. No one had ever dared mention the incident almost six seasons before, when after defeating a large contingent of mountain militia and accepting their surrender, Krieger had slaughtered four of the creatures out of naught but pure bloodlust. They could only stare in stunned silence as their piercing wails wraught the air, silenced only as the vermin snuffed out their lives one by one.

The weasel's paw was already grasping the handle of his weapon. "You...you...I'll flay the hide from your miserable back! I swear on the fiery entrance of hellgates itself, I'll..."

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly taking notice of Shiloh's own blade. The knife itself didn't seem very spectacular. A simple Birchwood handle, with a blade just longer than the width of his paw and a quarter as wide. There wasn't even any crossguard to protect its owner's fingers from slipping down onto the blade. But it wasn't the weapon on its own that made Macepaw stop. It was widely known that Shiloh's experience with this particular dagger was only surpassed by that with his bow. While he may win the fight in the end, Krieger knew, his chances of coming out without being seriously wounded or killed were slim.

Growling lowly, the weasel spat one more time and then turned away, the small rat trundling along behind.

It was another few moments before the silence was broken by Harsk's guffawing laughter. He held up two fingers, only a hair's breadth between them. "This close, mate. This close to getting yer skull split. I swear, sometimes it's like ye're _tryin' _t' get yoreself killed."

The fox took his gaze away from Krieger's disappearing figure only after he was sure the weasel hadn't turned around. "Funny how that'n talks of honor and duty like he's a bloody Saint. He's probably killed more than all of us combined."

Thorben leaned back against his traveling bag, clasping his paws behind his head nonchalantly. "Doesn't really matter in the long run, we're all doomed to Hellgates by now anyways. Just hope the devil's got room for all us scallywags, eh?"

Shiloh chuckled mirthlessly. Gallows humor usually wasn't very humorous at all, but at times it was all they had. "Aye, that's the truth. Archers aren't looked upon very fondly by the enemy, let alone the spirits."

"Whaddya mean?" Harsk asked.

"Well," He went on, "Let's say that a lord or a knight gets taken prisoner. Unless they're fightin' savages, usually they get treated well and held for ransom. Lots of pomp and circumstance, big ceremonies, huge dinner, the whole bit."

The ferret seemed puzzled. "Ye mean they don't treat archers the same? We're part o' the group, ain't we?"

Shiloh smiled wryly. "Oh, sure, we're in the same army. But that doesn't mean we're the same as them. As much as I can't abide that worthless scum Krieger, he had a point. We're considered less-than worthy of the same treatment. You'd be lucky if they execute ye outright. Last time I saw a yeobeast get captured..." He shook his head sadly. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

"Why, wot'd they do to 'em?"

"Beat on 'em for a while," Thorben answered, staring blankly into the fire and speaking in a voice racked with sadness and horror at the memory. "But that wasn't just it. They strung four of the poor creatures up on a rack and tortured them for at least two days, right where we could see 'em all. In the end they cut off their string fingers and dumped every soul into a lake while they were still bound, alive an' kickin'." His face was a mask of disgust. "I ain't never seen anythin' like it in all me days."

Harsk shifted his gaze back and forth between the two, looking desperately for any sign that they were just trying to scare him. But there was nothing. Only a stoic silence and sad gazes off into the night.

Eventually the trio drifted into a fitful sleep, tormented incessantly by the falling rain.


	2. Chapter 2 Thrillin' heroics

**And here we are again! Ch. 2 of Drifter, and one that I had a great time throwing together. A note to my readers, though: I know it may seem like I'm throwing a lot of characters in willy-nilly, but it'll all come together in later chapters. **

**So as always, read, enjoy and review!**

Shiloh grumbled as somebeast kicked his paw, rousing him from what little sleep he had managed to glean from the previous night. "Get up, lazy-arse. Time fer more thrillin' heroics." Thorben was standing over him, two shrunken apples in paw. He tossed one to the fox as he sat up groggily.

"Any more rain?" He asked moodily, trying not to think of the prospects of spending another day slogging through muddy, treacherous woodland trails.

"Thank the seasons, no." His squirrel comrade replied, gesturing to the clouds overhead. They were gray, but not the sort that foretold of storms. They were flat and listless, not the giant monsters that had menaced them before. "A bit wet, but nothin' too bad."

Shiloh grunted, nodding as he took a bite of the dried fruit. It was mushy and tasted blander than water, but it was food nonetheless. "Any word from the scouts on how far it is t' go?"

Thorben went on as they wandered to a large fire, where most of the archers had gathered. There were at least three iron pots boiling tea, and some strips of dried fishing baking over the flames. Shiloh helped himself to some of the pine-needle brew, savoring the warmth. "Not yet, but they'll probably be back within an hour or so. They said not more'n a day's march at yesterday's assembly, so hopefully we're close."

"Not any other details on the job either, I take it?" He got a shake of the head.

Shiloh grumbled quietly. Their latest contract had been a mysterious one, to say the least. It came from an anonymous client via letter, asking them to find a suitable path through the woodlands, one that would eventually lead to a dirt road running north-to-south. Once they had discovered the road, the message had said, wait for further notice. A right strange request indeed.

But the pay had been good, better than most in fact. And that was all that mattered to Shiloh, besides making sure his small troop of archers came home safely. There may have not been any hierarchy within their ranks, but he felt a sense of responsibility for the dozens of younger, more inexperienced soldiers.

It had been just over half an hour when a few beasts wandered into camp, breathing heavily and drinking from their canteens. Everybeast crowded together as the two scouts made their report.

There as a rousing cheer when they told the ranks that their objective lay not more than two hours from where they rested now. At last, no more sitting about with wet tails and cold paws. There was a clamor as everybeast rushed about to gather their equipment and make ready to depart.

Shiloh put on the small, light rucksack that held the lot of his meager possessions. Next he donned the thick belt that secured his knife, and finally the quiver filled with two-dozen goose feather-fletched arrows, tipped with either cutting broadheads or the infamous bodkins, made to punch through armor like it was rotting tree bark.

Finally, he slipped his bow from its protective cloth sleeve, which had been coated in wax to seal it from the water. He was relieved to see the honey-colored yew wood untouched by the rain. It was far more than the average hunting weapon carried by so many. This was a true warbow: As tall as his own figure when fully strung, with a draw weight that most would deem unnecessarily heavy. But most of those statements fell flat when a steel-shod arrow hit a target almost three hundred paces off.

Shiloh strung the bow with professional ease, sliding the loop at one end of the string over the nock cut into the wood. Even then, after countless seasons of practicing archery, he still got a thrill out of seeing the simple, elegant shape of a fully strung bow bent like half a crescent moon. For such a rudimentary thing, it was undoubtedly one of the deadliest on any battlefield.

The column was underway within a matter of minutes, with a few beasts volunteering to go ahead of the main force to survey the situation ahead. Shiloh and the archers took their usual spot in the center of the marchers, starting the arduous slog through more mud and water. But spirits were high, finally on their way towards payment. Even Shiloh found himself smiling a bit. Thinking of the near future, when he and his comrades would be let loose on the nearest town to drink, dance, and brawl the night away, gave him all the more incentive to pick up the pace.

Thorben lost his footing in the sludge and went face-down into the dirt. He sputtered and cursed as he sprang back up, with everybeast laughing at his expense. "Ah, shut your traps!" He said testily, pawing a glob of mud away from his chin. "I can't stand this infernal muck. How could it get any worse?"

"Easy," Shiloh said with a mocking grin. "It could be snowing, or blistering hot, or fire raining down from the heavens and seas of pestilence..."

Thorben shot him a look. "Well, it ain't, so I got every right to complain! B'sides, you're used to the weather trying t' kill you, brushtail. The Northlands aren't exactly hospitable during the...well, during any season, really."

He tossed the eaten apple core at the squirrel. "I didn't grow up in the Northlands; I lived on the North-eastern coasts. How many times have I said that?"

Thorben waved his paw in a dismissive gesture. "Wotever, it's still the same forsaken, desolate place."

Shiloh didn't respond. What the squirrel said was true. He never spoke much of his early years, mostly because he didn't care to remember them. All he could ever recall were glimpses of driving snow out of a small cabin window, and his parents huddling around the fire, but shivering nonetheless. Ten days without food, all of it had been given to Shiloh, so he could live, they had said. At least, they did before...

Much to his thankfulness, the melody of a bird's morning call snapped him out of the trance-like reverie. He looked up to the boughs of a nearby Evergreen, where a small bird had perched himself above their heads.

"Sparrow," Harsk appeared next to him, gesturing to the cream-colored breast and brown feathers. "Common in these parts, from what I been told. They won't hurt nobeast, not unless ye tweak wid their nests. Can't unnerstand a lick o' what they say, though. 's like talkin' to a..."

He stopped abruptly as the bird flinched, a small dart seeming to sprout from its chest. It tried to chirp and fly away, but its wings had hardly opened before it tumbled to the ground.

Shiloh was already looking towards the shooter with a glare of malice. Standing only a short distance away was a strange, menacing rat. He wore a thread-bare cloak; patched so many times and with so many different things that the original fabric was almost buried. The rat's black and gray fur was tattered and marred by countless scars, raw skin showing underneath. It gazed back at Shiloh with two almost colorless eyes that seemed to see right through him.

"What are you staring at, archer?" His voice was a harsh rasp, like it was a serpent speaking for him.

"Somebeast who doesn't know how to conserve ammunition," He said flatly. "Or how to keep a sensible brain inside their skull, for that matter. Maybe all those years of poisoning are finally catching up to you, Sairus. That bird wasn't doing anything to harm us."

The rat moved towards him, almost slithering over the ground with his paws. "It could have been a spy," He hissed. "Working for the native creatures in this forest. It would not be wise to let one such as that to escape. But I do not expect a creature of your station to understand such things. Now, leave my sight before I must remove you myself."

Shiloh didn't bat an eyelash. "If I remember correctly, it was you who came over here, not the other way around. So in all fairness, you should be the one to move."

Everybeast was too afraid of Sairus to laugh out loud, but it was easy enough to see the merriment starting to spread on their faces. The rat scowled at them all before spitting at Shiloh's footpaws and disappearing back into the column.

Thorben shook his head in wonder. "That's twice in the last day you've nearly gotten yerself killed by one beast or another in this company. If you're so keen on dyin', just jump off a bridge, mate. It'd go quicker."

He shook his head. "That wasn't very smart on my end, I'll admit. Especially with Sairus being in league with Macepaw. The two of them are thicker'n thieves."

Harsk, having only joined with the group two seasons ago, wasn't all familiar with what Shiloh was speaking of. "Whaddya mean? They don't seem like the most likely pair, Macepaw wit' his obsession over 'honor', an' that rat bein' a poisoner. Don't make much sense, if'n ye ask me."

"Well, we aren't askin' you, are we?" Thorben said jokingly, elbowing the ferret in the ribs. "But don't let 'em fool you. Everbeast's too afraid to ask any real questions, but we all know that they're playin' off eachother somehow."

Shiloh nodded. "As best we figure, Sairus is a kind of middle-man between clients and Krieger, who like it or not, ends up decidin' on most of the deals we take. Krieger isn't a very business-savvy, so he's got Sairus to work the details. But if somebody tries to stiff the rat, that's where Krieger steps in. No matter what we like to think, they're the unofficial leader of this little ramblin' show of ours."

Thorben blew some water off the edge of his nose after walking into a low-hanging branch. "And good luck t' anybeast who thinks they can ride roughshod over those two. I seen Krieger do things with that mace o' his that I didn't think possible." The squirrel actually shivered thinking about it. "Don't bear well dwellin' on."

They fell into silence, the sound of clinking armor and paws squelching in the mire replacing conversation. Occasionally, the mud would get so deep that it felt like they were swimming through it instead of walking. Jaws and limbs trembled from cold, and at least half of the band was sniffling, sneezing, and coughing from one kind of sickness or another. But all they could do was press on, each individual suffering silently.

Suddenly, a halt was ordered, the command echoing down their ranks. Everybeast immediately perked up at the shout that came from the front. "It's the road! We're there!"

A joyous shout rose up from the hundred or so creatures, some tossing their helmets up into the air in cheer. Soon there was a mad dash for everybeast to find a good camping spot near their journey's end.

Shiloh took a moment to examine the paw-path. It wasn't anything spectacular, with the usual signs of cart's wheels gouging out ruts in the compacted earth, and trampled foliage off to the sides. But immediately he began to notice other things; subtle indications that made him wonder.

The most obvious difference between this and most of other well-traveled roads was that this particular one seemed remarkably well-maintained. There was no garbage or debris to be spoken of, even in the ditches where it was most often heaped. The soil had been kept even, and it was clear that somebeast, or beasts, had taken the time to remove large rocks, which would have made the going much more difficult.

Another flag went up the moment he spotted the site where the company had begun to set up camp. It was a large, grassy field, which although not unusual in itself, it was far too symmetrical and well-placed to be naturally occurring. Even fruit-bearing trees and vegetation, such as blueberry and strawberry bushes, had been planted around the small meadow's edge.

"I know what you're thinkin'," Thorben said, standing next to him with the same skeptical look on his battered squirrel face. "Cuz I'm thinkin' it too."

"It's too perfect," Shiloh murmured. "Like somebeast knew we'd be here. I don't like it."

Thorben shook his head. "I dunno if they were waitin' for us, per say, but sure as the sunrise there's somebeast takin' care of this place. The question is who. Anythin' suspicious? Ambush points, blind spots, booby traps, anythin' ye see?"

Shiloh took a few long moments to scour the tree-line with his keen eyes. Plenty of natural fauna, along with the planted shrubbery, and what looked like a few logs that had been turned into a makeshift bench, but nothing sinister. "No," He said finally, sighing. "Nothing. I don't think the creatures that made this have any malcontent towards passerby. But keep an eye out, would you? I don't want to have any surprises during the night."

The squirrel nodded shortly, before setting out to find a good site for their own sleeping area. Already, the whitish gray smoke of campfires was beginning to carry above the treetops along with the sounds of conversation, singing, and rearranging of equipment as Shiloh wound his way through camp. Occasionally somebeast would look up and nod in greeting, but most just kept to themselves and their personal comrades.

He almost ran straight into their two scouts, a rat and squirrel pair. They were obviously exhausted; staggering and blinking rapidly, trying not to fall flat on their faces.

"Sorry, mate," The squirrel said, slurring like a drunkard. "We gotta head out again. Krieger said he'd 'appreciate it' if we could sweep the area 'round here to make sure it's safe." He snorted contemptuously. "All he wants it some little hamlet to loot and pillage from. After all, how else would he become such an honorable warrior?"

Shiloh frowned, feeling same taste of disgust rising up in the back of his throat again. Krieger knew that their scouts had been running ragged for days, but all he cared about was riches. Typical. "How about this," He said finally, shaking the glower from his expression. "You two go get some rest, and I'll go take a quick look about. If Krieger gets his chainmail in a twist, tell him I went in your stead. He'll be happy knowing there's a chance of me getting killed without anybeast to tell about it." In reality, there was probably little chance of him falling to any harm, but he also knew that Krieger would indeed be relishing any opportunity for Shiloh to put himself in potential danger.

The rat shrugged, already turning back towards his bedroll. "Wotever you say, cully. Good luck."

Thorben looked up in surprise as Shiloh tossed him his pack, standing in the archer's camp. "What's this for?"

Checking his arrow supply, the fox told him what had transpired moments before. "It just looked like they could use some rest," He said, throwing the quiver across the back of his shoulders. "And besides, I might be able to scrounge up something for dinner."

His friend wagged a finger in the air. "Now that there is a capitol idea! Bring back somethin' nice, would ya? Roasted woodpigeon in a crème sauce would be nice, or maybe a grilled trout with a garnish of peppers and lime..."

The early afternoon skies were finally beginning to clear above the treetops as Shiloh wound his way through the forest, slipping through the brush as though he were part of it. Despite only having been in the area for a few days, he was already beginning to feel at home. The lofty trees and smell of fresh soil reminded him of his first days traveling, making his way east across the mountainous terrain separating the Northlands. It had been a long, hard journey, but it had also taught him skills and techniques that had kept him alive to this very day.

He held his bow ready, but with no arrow on the string. He held two shafts in his bow-paw, which kept his right free to reach for the knife on his belt if necessary. But even then, he had a feeling he wouldn't need either. These woods were peaceful and quiet, except for the occasional birdsong or chirping insect. Shiloh was beginning to enjoy this particular mission, no matter who had ordered it.

_Mossflower, _he had heard somebeast call the area. He wasn't sure if it was true or not, but it seemed reasonable enough. Any fallen logs or low-hanging branches were covered with the green substance, although the ground underfoot was relatively free of it.

As he kept moving forward, using what few landmarks he could see through the foliage as bearings, Shiloh noticed a rise in the land up ahead, and what looked like open ground with no trees or obstructions.

_Another meadow, maybe? _He contemplated to himself. _After all, it wouldn't make sense to only create one of them. _Settling into a low crouch, the fox began to slink towards the small hill. It had taken season after season of practice, but by now he would unconsciously move his footpaws to avoid stepping on twigs or dry leaves to stay hidden. By no means was it an easy strategy, but one he was grateful he had chosen to learn.

By the time he crested the hill, Shiloh was crawling along the ground as to not reveal his silhouette at the top of the horizon. He scanned the field ahead and was astonished to see a lone building standing there, a large stone and brick affair. But as he began to look closer, his eyes widened in amazement.

This was far more than a simple colony or settlement. The walls were constructed out of huge red sandstone blocks, most likely as thick as he was tall, Shiloh estimated. Battlements ringed the outside of the parapets, expertly carved and crafted. Inside what he could only assume was a massive inner sanctum, he could clearly make out a bell tower and a few other buildings, just as impressive as what he had already seen. There also appeared to be a substantial amount of trees inside the structure itself, presumably for food and building materials.

And despite his practical thinking, Shiloh couldn't help but be impressed by its beauty. Traveling across the land, he had seen many abandoned or derelict castles, walls haphazardly constructed out of large boulders and slabs of mortar, with little attention to aesthetics. But this building was clearly something different. The red stones caught midday's light wonderfully, and the brightly colored stained-glass windows sparkled in the sun's rays. Clearly, somebeast had put many seasons of time and effort raising this structure up from nothing.

Something else was puzzling him, a small voice in the back of his mind. Although it looked easily defendable, with the high walls and limited approaches from the woods, there wasn't a single sentry or guard standing watch atop the ramparts.

"What is this place?" He mumbled to himself, tapping his claws on the dirt. "Who builds something like this and doesn't even bother to guard it? It doesn't make sense."

He snapped out of the reverie as the warbling trill of a nearby sparrow caught his attention. Immediately, he looked towards the sound, but the bird had already alighted from the nearby perch and was flapping towards the structure, with an obvious sense of haste on its part.

Shiloh chastised himself silently as he slid back down the small rise, already beginning to run as he reached the bottom. To take so many precautions, and then be discovered by a lone bird! For all he knew, the inhabitants of the building might be waiting for a chance to take some sort of prisoner, or just kill him for the sake of it. After all, he had no experience in this part of the region. If it was anything like the north, beasts would slay another simply out of caution and worry for their own lives. 'Strike first and ask questions later' was the unofficial motto.

He arrived back at camp shortly thereafter, breathing hard and pawsore. As soon as he entered the grounds, it was obvious that something had changed while they were gone. Beasts were hastily checking equipment and sharpening weapons, all with grim looks on their faces.

Shiloh found Thorben rubbing wax over the string of his short, but powerful recurved bow. "What's going on?" He asked, still panting.

The squirrel kept talking as he went through his quiver. "Second part of the job came through a couple of minutes ago. We're to head north on the road until we come to somethin' that looks like a castle and...well, er..."

The fox's heart had leapt into his throat. "What? What do we have to do?"

"We're to hold it under siege 'till the beasts inside surrender."

He almost felt like throwing up. Leaning down, Shiloh spoke frantically into the squirrel's ear. "Mate, I'm telling you the honest truth here. I saw that place, not more than half an hour ago."

Thorben looked up sharply. "Shiloh, I swear on all that's holy, if ye're lyin' to me..."

He shook his head. "I'll put my oath on it, friend. It's nestled in the woodlands, probably not more than half a league north of here. I could only see one side of it, but..." He exhaled slowly. "A siege won't do much."

Describing the building, Shiloh could see the look on his comrade's face change. As he finished, Thorben ran a paw over his face, trying to compose himself. "So what you're sayin' is...it ain't possible?"

"Not in this lifetime," He said after making sure nobeast was listening in. "And not with what we've got here. Has anybeast said anything against it?"

Thorben scoffed. "And tweak off Krieger? Not on your life, mate. But I saw him after a bird flew into camp and gave him the second letter. His got all giddy, mutterin' about bein' the richest beast in this ruddy lot. Sairus perked up a bit too, grinnin' like a madbeast."

Shiloh walked alongside him as the two went to assemble with the rest of the group. "Something isn't right here, I can feel it. We don't even know anything about who lives in that place! Knowing our luck, it'll be a bunch of trained knights, hell-bent on destroying us as soon as the first arrow flies."

Thorben offered a shrug. "Not much we can do, the way I see it. This 'client' didn't tell us much. Didn't even give us a reason fer layin' a random castle under siege. But o' course, Macepaw ain't one to pass up a chance for slaughter an' carnage."

Harsk joined them in their routine spot, carrying two full bags of arrows along with his own quiver. "Hate bein' the arrow-runner," he grumbled, shifting the weight lashed on his back. "Just a walkin' target, wid' all these fletchings stickin' up like flags over me head."

Shiloh managed a small grin. "Well, better than being in Krieger's assault platoon. I'll take a bow and bit of concealment over running pell-mell towards a fortified castle any day."

They finally got underway, hundreds of paws beating a cacophony on the dirt road. On a normal day, somebeast would have struck up a marching song in order to keep pace, but there was none. Most were too worried over the lack of information about their contract to speak. They hadn't been told how many fighters there might be, how long they had to stay there, not even what sort of defenses they might have! There was far too much uncertainty for most beasts' liking.

Shiloh could hear beasts talking at the head of the column. It was some of Krieger's closer allies, trying to spur confidence in the skeptical ranks.

"Come on, you lilies, it'll be a breeze!"

"They'll be tremblin' in their fur by the time we get there!"

"Move, you lot! The sooner we get there the sooner we finish it, sooner we finish sooner we get to break out the kegs and have a right ol' bash!"

One of them passed the archers. Instead of the inspirational speech he had given the rest, he grinned savagely and slid a claw over his throat, cackling. Shiloh just stared at him coldly until the pine marten shriveled and left.

It was early evening by the time somebeast called a halt. Half a dozen beasts were picked to run ahead and find out how long it would be until their destination. It had only been a matter of moments before they all came sprinting back, spreading word as fast as they could. "Get off the road! Into the woods, hide! Somebeast's coming!"

All fivescore creatures rushed to hide themselves as best they could, dashing off into the forest. It was a maneuver that took considerable skill to execute well, but the benefits were worth the time spent practicing. Everybeast knew that surprise would be the key to their victory, as anybeast who saw them would have time to prepare their defenses, something the mercenaries could not afford.

Shiloh nestled himself underneath a thick heather bush. From where he was, he was facing at a slight upward cant, since the road was raised a tad above the actual ground.

But even from there, he could already begin to make out the sounds of footsteps on the path, along with somebeast humming. He couldn't see it yet, as the road curved to the right about a spearthrow's length ahead. All he could do was sit, wait, and pray that they remained unseen.

After a few moments of agonizing patience, Shiloh finally caught sight of the figure. It was hard to make out precise details, but it was obviously a mouse. He wore a simple green robe over his hazel-colored fur, coming up to just above his footpaws. In one paw he held a small basket while the other swished alongside his body in the carefree manner of a beast in his native turf.

Shiloh was puzzled by the beast's strange attire. He thought he could recall a distant memory of seeing something like that garment before, but the thought slipped away. He chose instead to focus on watching the beast before him, who now was beginning to walk past the hidden fighters. Shiloh was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when the mouse suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, a curious look on his face. He leant down and picked something up, turning it over in his paws.

The fox seethed with anger as he examined the object; it was a thick glove, with chain-maille rings sewn onto its back. Curiosity turning to worry on his face, the mouse began to walk back from the direction he came.

What happened next would forever haunt the fox. Somebeast on the opposite side of the road must have shifted position, and even from his spot, Shiloh could hear the snap of a dry stick like thunder in the quiet afternoon.

Time slowed to a crawl. The mouse turned towards the sound, almost immediately noticing the metal armor and weapons shining dully in the light. He remained frozen in place for a split second before dropping the basket and turning, starting to sprint down the path.

Shiloh was already moving by the time a frenzied shout came from none other than Macepaw himself. The weasel leapt out of the ditch, pointing his massive weapon at the retreating beast. "Bring him down!" he screeched, "Don't let him escape!"

Stopping on the precipice of the trench, Shiloh slid an arrow from his quiver and set it on the bow without looking. As he brought the weapon to bear, however, he realized something was wrong. Instead of the deadly broadhead which would have immediately stopped anybeast in its tracks, there was a needle-tipped bodkin. It would be painful, no doubt, but not with the killing blow that was needed unless precisely aimed.

_Too late to change now, _he thought grimly to himself as he drew the string in one swift motion. After so many seasons of archery, it wasn't even necessary for him to aim down the shaft. It was all instinct, feeling and knowing where the arrow would go. He placed an imaginary target in the center of the fleeing mouse's back and began to let the string roll off his fingers.

Two things happened in very short order as the string leapt forward. The mouse turned around to see if he was being pursued, twisting ever so slightly. Then, Krieger roared once again, as loud as his lungs could manage. "Kill him!"

The sudden noise was enough to make Shiloh flinch ever so slightly. He could only watch in despair as the arrow launched itself from the bow, spinning towards the target.

Shiloh winced, more out of embarrassment than anything else, as the fine-headed arrow buried itself in the creature's shoulder. It was far from a lethal wound; the mouse yelped in pain, and one arm suddenly went limp, but he kept running. He disappeared around the bend in the path just as Shiloh fit another arrow to string.

"_Paeska!" _Shiloh rarely cursed, especially from the ancient language of his family. But when he did, it was with full fury. Such things were not said lightly. "You bloody arsehead!" He shouted, turning on Krieger. "That was your fault! I had him, and you had to go and jump the string!"

The weasel looked to be on the brink of splitting the fox's head open, trembling in rage and clutching his mace tightly. "Shut your insolent mouth! You'll pay for that mistake later, I swear on it." He roared to the rest of the troops. "Everybeast, assemble on me! We're going to cut that little nuisance down!"

Moving like a tidal wave of armor, they all converged on the path and began to sprint as fast as their legs would carry them. Dust rose in a great cloud above their heads like a malevolent specter. War-cries and shouts began to cut through the air.

Everybeast suddenly froze as the great building appeared around the corner. Some stood frozen to the spot, while others slowly began to lose momentum in their charge. A few souls, desperate for any chance to prove themselves to be true warriors, roared and charged towards the massive gate barring their way.

Without warning, a hail of slingstones began to rain down on them, seemingly from nowhere. The rocks cracked armor and bone, sending at least five beasts down and driving the rest off in short order.

Shiloh realized what was happening. "Pull back!" He shouted while gesturing to his archers to ready their bows. "Pull back, stay away! They can't get us from this far!"

He nocked another arrow to the string, glancing about at the other yeobeasts to make sure they followed. "Archers!" He shouted, turning back to the structure in order to pick out a target. "Ready, aim, loose!"

Angling the bow to what he best guessed was the correct angle; Shiloh let the string slip from the tips of his fingers, feeling it slap against his wrist a blink of an eye later. A score of strings followed, releasing their missiles with a loud _twang! _The shafts sped into the sky, reaching towards the clouds before beginning to fall back to earth.

He was already drawing again as the first volley came down behind the walls. He thought he could hear distant screams, but forced the sound from his head and continued loosing.

The string stung his arm four more times before he shouted to the beasts behind him. "Cease fire, cease fire! Retreat, back into the woodline, everybeast!"

Those not already diving for cover followed his direction, fleeing for the protection of the trees. Shiloh took a glance over his shoulder at the walltops, desperately trying to learn how many beasts they were up against. Under the circumstances, he could only guess at approximately a dozen or so.

Beasts were already beginning to lick their wounds and take account of the situation by the time Shiloh arrived. He was immediately searching out the archers, taking stock of the situation.

"Here's the scenario," he said, drawing a rough sketch of the building and surrounding woods with a stick, using the dirt floor as a canvas. "That main gate here faces the west, towards the path. I don't think we want to go anywhere near there. It's far too open. But the surrounding woodlands," he said, gesturing around them, "are perfect. If we surround them on three sides, north, south, and east, we should be able to keep them bottled up. Thorben, how many yeobeasts do we have in all?"

The squirrel was still waving his paw where a stone had nicked him. "Guessing just a bit over a score, not many."

Shiloh nodded to himself. "Right, then. I want six or seven beasts on each side, well-hidden and out of their sling range. Keep on alert, but don't fire unless they start first. Remember, we're keeping them under siege, not trying to break in. If you see anybeast coming out of there trying to make a run for it, end them. Agreed?"

He got an affirmation from everybeast before sending them on their way. Harsk and Thorben stayed, however, seeing the mischievous glint starting to glow in Shiloh's eye. "What are you thinkin' at, mate?" The squirrel said tentatively. "I can see those gears turnin'."

The fox tried to hide the grin starting to form on his face. "It's an odd thing, keeping a bunch of creatures under siege for no reason. It only makes sense that Mister Client eventually wants us to conquer this place. After all, why else would we do it? The way I'm seeing things, it could save a lot of beasts' time and pain to find some way inside ourselves."

Harsk didn't even try to conceal his dislike of the plan. "I don't know, mate. Ain't our place, we're just doin' the job. Let the wackjob who 'ired us do things 'is way. If'n he wants us t' stand outside this place until our fur turns gray, then fine by me. So long as I'm gettin' paid at the end of it all."

Thorben patted him on the shoulder like an older beast addressing a child as he began to walk towards the already sputtering cooking fire. "Sometimes it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, sonny. Ye'll learn that right quick."


	3. Chapter 3 Schemes, plots, and an otter

**I have some advice for those of you who haven't started senior year of high school: If you think you'll have lots of free time to write and have fun and the like: DON'T. I know, I know, I blame school for every late submission, but this one's for real. **

**Enough of that, though. I'm really enjoying writing Drifters, probably because in the shift of characters. Finally I get to do a bad guy! (or, well, kinda. You'll see later.) So, enjoy Ch. 3!**

**Also, you know the drill. _R&R!_**

* * *

><p>Night had fallen, and the air began to turn cold and damp. Most beasts had taken to sitting around roaring fires, huddling in whatever meager protection they could find or create. Even then, it was nice to have the orange flames leaping up into the dark, providing a small bit of comfort. Some had managed to snare a bird and were roasting the meat over open flames. Others foraged for wild edibles or munched on their stale rations.<p>

Shiloh, Thorben, and Harsk were not partaking in any of these luxuries. At that particular moment, all three were crouching in the shadows on the southeast corner of the structure. It had been no easy task, slipping out from the trees and sprinting almost a full spearthrow's distance towards the walls. At any moment, Shiloh had been sure, they would have heard shouts and shortly thereafter riddled with arrows or pummeled with stones.

But they had made it safely, and now a more pressing need was beginning to arise:

How to get inside.

Shiloh was still quietly cursing himself as they stumbled against the wall, trying to find any way to gain entrance. Yes, it had been a hastily-constructed plan, but he should have thought of something as simple as not being able to see two inches in front of his face! The moon had been blocked out by more clouds, and torches were obviously out of the question.

So now, they were quite literally feeling their way along the wall in desperate search for a gate or door. They had been at it for almost half an hour, and he was beginning to grow desperate when he heard Harsk's muffled hiss.

He joined Thorben next to the ferret, who was gesturing madly towards a nondescript section of wall. At first, Shiloh couldn't see anything. But eventually he was close enough to make out the shape of a small gate, constructed out of simple boards and an even simpler lock.

Harsk immediately set himself to work. He was by no means the best archer in their midst, and not all together too intelligent, but was remarkably adept at the ways of stealth, thievery, and of course, lock picking.

After a few muttered curses and dull clicks, the door began to swing open on its hinges. Harsk caught it before it could open fully, investigating the pivots for anything that would creak or rattle. When he was satisfied he released the frame and stepped to the side, beckoning Shiloh through with an exaggerated wave of the paw.

Making sure the gate was shut after they had all entered, Shiloh immediately set about looking for somewhere to conceal them. He found it in the shadows of a set of stairs leading up to the walltops. After they had immersed themselves in the dark, he took a cursory glance about at what lay ahead of them.

He was immediately astonished by how large the grounds were. Even with its impressive dimensions from the outside, the structure seemed even larger inside. There were a number of large buildings, including the large bell-tower he had seen previously. There was also some sort of living quarters, and a gatehouse. A few lights still shone from the windows, which gave them just a bit of illumination to see by.

"Impressive lot," Thorben whispered. "Wonder what it is?"

Shiloh didn't bother with an answer. Instead, he gestured towards another building that, at least from what he could assume, seemed to be some sort of commons area or possibly a dining hall. "We'll enter there," He murmured, letting the bow hang over his back, held close by the string. His knife was already in paw. "Stay hidden at all costs, but don't kill or hurt anybeast unless you've got no other choice. Remember, we're just here to get a lay of the land and find the weak spots. Let's move."

Sticking to the shadows as much as possible, the trio began to edge their way around the wall towards the larger building. They had just reached a large clump of bushes when voices, almost directly above them on the wall top, froze them in place.

"Joerg, you've been up here for hours! Why don't you head back to the dormitories? I'll keep watch for a while."

"Oh, I'm fine, Lucas. Too excited to sleep anyways."

"Funny, that's why I was coming up here to see you. Not much incentive for rest tonight, is there?"

"Aye, nobeast can deny that. What's jerkin' my chain so bad is that these rotters haven't done anything 'cept for lob a couple arrows at us and wait in the trees. No list o' demands, nobeast coming out to say they want treasure or some such...it don't make sense."

"I'm afraid these vermin aren't too concerned with being sensible, brother. Unfortunately, there's not much we can do until they decide to make a move, whatever that might be."

"True enough. Well, I'll bid ye goodnight, Brother Lucas."

"Good night, Joerg."

As the sound of pawsteps on the wooden planks faded, Shiloh turned to the ghost-like faces of Thorben and Harsk. Motioning for them to follow, he set off towards the dimly-lit building ahead of them at a low trot, grateful for the silencing effect the wet grass had on their movement.

Most of the windows on this side of the building were too high, but there were a few at head-level about halfway along the building, where a portion of the wall jutted out. It seemed to be one of the few rooms still awake. A dull, ruddy light glowed in the panes, but not enough to cast any significant glare. And as Shiloh looked closer, he thanked the fates for their kindness. For there, beckoning them inside, sat a half-opened window.

He pointed out the opening to Thorben and Harsk, who both nodded in silent agreement. They sprinted the meager distance, halting just underneath the windowsill as Shiloh poked his snout over the edge.

The room was clearly some sort of library. Dusty volumes and scrolls sat in neat, organized rows upon their shelves and desks. The light was coming from at least a dozen candle sconces hanging on the walls. Shiloh immediately noticed the sole occupant: A gray-furred mouse, dozing quietly in the corner on a large chair, a book still open in his lap.

Shiloh conveyed the situation to his companions using paw signals. _One beast, asleep. Don't hurt him. Be quiet, go after me._

He didn't bother to wait for their responses before gently sliding the window up, making sure the wooden peg holding it in place was secure before sliding through the gap.

His paws hit the floor with nary a sound, and he quickly took stock of his surroundings. No other beasts awake at this late hour. That was good. A confrontation was the last thing he wanted. After hearing Thorben get inside, followed shortly thereafter by Harsk, the fox waved a paw forward. They crept down the narrow walkways, surrounded on each side by innumerable stacks and shelves of scrolls and books. The whole time, everybeast was keeping a sharp eye on the sleeping mouse on the opposite side of the room.

They made it to the door without incident. Harsk promptly set about inspecting the door hinges, repeating the same steps he had taken with the gate. When he was assured that it was satisfactory, he drew the small hatchet hanging at his side and swung the door open, stepping out into the hall.

A few seconds later a paw beckoned them around the corner, so both creatures exited the library. Shiloh looked back and forth, checking each approach. One lead to another hallway, which then split into another. The left pathway continued down to a series of doors on either side, with one on the very end. He chose the right, hoping to get a better sense of how the structure was arranged.

They had been walking for a good while when the sound of a shutting door made each of them jump. The echo of approaching pawsteps from the direction they had just come from sent a bolt of anxiety through Shiloh, and he gestured hurriedly for Thorben and Harsk to pick up their pace.

The trio was almost sprinting as they reached a wide staircase. They ignored the fading light, as there were fewer torches than in the library, and continued on down. Unfortunately for him, Shiloh's eyes had not yet become accustomed to the darkness. Evidently, in their haste during the day, some resident had left a pewter tray resting on the steps, holding a set of metal cups. His footpaw knocked against the platter, sending it skidding down the steps with a crash. The fox could feel his gut turn into a ball of ice and his skin crawl as a pair of voices followed the clatter.

"Hey, 'd you hear that?"

"Sure enough. I think it was that plate one of the little'uns left up on the staircase; I saw it earlier before the alarm was raised. I don't think it's anything we need to worry about, do you?"

_Please, _Shiloh begged from inside his head. _Please, just go back to whatever you were doing. Just go away, go away, go away..._

"I think we should check it out, just to be sure. After all, we don't want somebeast stepping on the pieces and cutting themselves."

_Sonofawhore!_

There was nothing he could do. Even as he desperately sought an escape route, the pawsteps coming from the opposite direction grew louder. Thorben and Harsk were in a similar state of mind, expressions of blank shock etched onto their faces. As they looked at each other, the only remaining option became clear.

To say the two beasts coming around the curved staircase were surprised when they first spotted Shiloh and his comrades would be a vast understatement. A mouse and squirrel, clad in pale green robes tied off at the waist, remained frozen to the spot in fear. Even as Shiloh punched the mouse across the nose, and Harsk doubled the other over with a quick paw to the stomach, they hardly uttered a word in their fright.

Thorben, unfortunately, had tripped on his bowstring as he went to apprehend the beast approaching from behind. As he wiped blood off of the scrape on his chin and looked up, the dumbfounded hedgehog found his voice. "Intruders!" She bellowed, starting to turn away. "Vermin! Vermin in the-"

She got no further as Thorben, acting swiftly, stood and delivered a short strike to the back of the hedgehog's neck. She fell, whimpering softly.

Shiloh cast the squirrel a disapproving look, until he saw the spiked form stir slightly. _Unconscious, not dead. Good. I don't feel like murdering anybeast tonight._

But the brief alarm had done its job. Already, he could hear the distant sounds of beasts running and shouting, the echoes growing louder with each moment. Growling in frustration, Shiloh grabbed the stunned mouse by the back of his neck and hauled him upright, using the poor beast like a shield. Harsk did likewise, as Thorben covered their blind spots with his bow. The fox rasped out instructions as they ran down the hall, captives acting as their protection. "Out the way we came, quickly! They won't try and fight us with the hostages."

By the time they stumbled around a corner and into what looked like an exit, it was as if wild-eyed, shouting beasts were coming out of the wall cracks. Everywhere they turned, it seemed there was another creature waiting for them with either surprised gazes or bared teeth.

Shiloh kicked opens the heavy door with one footpaw, hustling the young mouse out in front of him. As they all spilled out onto the lawn and ran towards the small side gate, the fortress' residents were already beginning to surround them, shouting to their comrades.

"Tekkey, don't let 'em get near that staircase!"

"Bring the otter crew! Get Skipper!"

"Kidnappers! Murdering scum! Let me at 'em!"

Forcing the sounds out of his head, Shiloh reached towards the doorknob on the wood-panel gate. His fingers were just touching the brass handle when a javelin slapped his paw away, held by a vicious-looking otter. "Got ye now, vermin!" He snarled, raising the weapon for a killing blow.

Acting on pure instinct, Shiloh wrapped an arm around his hostage's neck and flicked the dagger from his belt with a single deft movement. As the blade hovered near at his victim's throat, everybeast seemed to flinch. Even the otter, bloodlust filling his eyes, took a quick step back.

The fox, breathing heavily, sneered. "Ah, not willing to sacrifice one of your own just to kill a few petty intruders? Good choice. Now, listen carefully to what I'm going to say. I am not going to harm a single strand of fur on this one's head, so long as my associates and I have your promise that you will not stop us from leaving through this gate," he said, tapping the door with a footpaw. "Nobeast gets hurt, and we leave you alone. Sound fair?"

Strangely, not a single beast out of the crowd spoke. Shiloh looked around at the mass of faces, trying to pick out something, anything from the sea of enraged looks. Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. But it wasn't what the voice said that chilled him; it was where it was coming from: Right above his head.

"You'll not hurt our young ones, fox, and you'll not leave here tonight!"

He never got a chance to turn before something solid landed on his head, taking him from the land of consciousness in a burst of stars.

Shiloh's first thought when he came to was that he wished he hadn't. He groaned as a sharp ache shot through his skull, throbbing in pain. _Must have been one nasty grog fest last night, _he said, starting to bring a paw up to his forehead. But it was stopped halfway there, like it was tied down.

The previous night's true events came back in a sudden rush, one that sent his red, bloodshot eyes shooting open.

He was lying in a simple but comfortable bed with the sheets pulled up to his waist. There were even more beds spaced evenly around the room, which was quite large. A few cupboards and shelves were hung on the walls, containing jars and vials and the occasional book. The high-placed windows overhead and on the opposite wall let the bright mid-morning sunlight through, dust sparkling like gold in the bright rays.

Only one other bed was filled, down at the far right corner and across from Shiloh. The creature had its back turned to him, but he could guess that it was a mouse or possibly a squirrel. Either way, it didn't move, except for the slow, steady breaths of one lost in deep slumber.

Shiloh inspected his restraints carefully. The bound each of his paws securely, but allowing him just enough movement to feel somewhat comfortable. That was, until he moved his left arm. The small flinch set a burst of white-hot pain through his body, making him grind and clench his teeth. He looked down, noticing the bandages wrapped carefully around the apparent wound. His white tunic was slightly stained with blood, but he couldn't remember why.

"What in hellgates is going on here?" He mumbled quietly to himself, running a paw through the fur on his head. "What sort of beast captures their enemy, free and clear, and then tends to their wounds?"

"The decent, caring beasts of the world, that's who."

Shiloh jumped slightly, snapping his head towards the gruff voice. Standing at the door, alongside an elderly mouse wearing a habit of similar style and color as he had seen previously, was a muscled otter clothed in a brown tunic and with a large dagger sheathed on his belt.

The otter spoke again, his eyes trying to burn a hole through Shiloh's skull the whole time. "O' course, if you aren't too pleased with the current accommodations, I can remedy that..." He said, paw drifting towards the blade.

Holding up a paw, the mouse stopped him. "Please, Roebak, enough. Skipper placed you here as an escort, though personally I don't believe your...skills will be required today. Our, ahem, guest doesn't seem to be in any position to confront either of us."

The mouse wandered over to the side of the bed, Roebak following close behind and watching the fox's every move, or lack thereof, with the attentiveness of a falcon waiting for its prey to reveal itself.

"We have quite a few things to discuss, mister..." The mouse trailed off, his sage eyes twinkling despite his late seasons. Even at first glance, it was easy to see that this particular creature, although somewhat strange by the fox's standards, was no fool. He had the advantage of experience, and knowledge enough to make use of it.

"Shiloh," he replied after a moment. His voice was flat, uncaring. "They call me Shiloh."

"Hmmm, I'll admit that certainly is an unusual name, at least for those of us in Mossflower. I take it you aren't native to here?"

Shiloh had already gained two valuable pieces of information: Firstly, he knew for a fact that this place was called Mossflower. With that, he could possibly find a way out using a map, if the opportunity presented itself.

Secondly, he could glean that these creatures knew little about the forces laying them to siege. They were trying to make sense of their enemy, finding any soft spots or weaknesses they might be able to slide a blade into.

He answered the question casually, as if was of no importance. "Grew up in the eastern deserts, left home after my parents decided they'd had enough and booted me outta the hollow," he said, adopting a more rustic manner of speech. "Me old pater's probably still out there, thankin' his lucky stars he got me out when he did."

The mouse sighed deeply. "I find it shameful that you feel the need to lie to me already, about something so trivial." He addressed Shiloh's astonished gaze. "Your longbow was constructed of yew wood, which cannot be found in the deserts. Fine choice of a stave, I might add. Wonderful ratio of early and late wood, very few knots for such a tree, tillered almost to the point of perfection. Excellent work, I must say."

Shiloh simply gaped. "How...how do you know..."

The mouse chuckled. "There is far more to me than meets the eye. Or anybeast living here at Redwall, for that matter."

"So that's what this place is called?" He said, not even trying to hide his true intentions any longer. "What is it, some sort of castle? That must make you king, then. At least, that's what I'm assuming. Strange garb for such a leader, though. I would have thought of something more...extravagant."

The mouse laughed again. "Castles? Kings? No, I'm afraid you're quite mistaken. Redwall is an abbey, and I am its abbot. My name is Michael, but most abbey-dwellers just call me Abbot or Father."

Shiloh was growing more confused by the moment. "Wait a moment. An abbey? As in, peace and tranquility and 'everybeast-living-for-the-common-good', abbey?"

"The very same."

The fox's mind was whirling. Every conflicting emotion he could envision was running through his head like a hundred shouting voices.

_These creatures don't deserve what you're putting them through! What were you thinking? _

_Think of the money, think of the rewards! They'll have enough treasure for ten armies in this place! After you've completed this job, it'll be smooth sailing for the rest of your life._

"You're an archer, I'm guessing?" Father Michael's words broke him out of the trance. Shiloh looked up, sputtering out a response. "Sorry, I...oh, er, yes, that's...that's my job."

Though he didn't show it, his heart was beginning to beat like a triphammer and his mind was screaming in terror, remembering what he had seen happen to others of his station. _Cut off their string fingers, leave them to starve and get eaten by the gulls..._

Father Michael simply nodded. "Well then, I'm sure you'll be happy to know that we treat our prisoners of war with dignity and respect. You'll receive food and water, and be moved to a suitable location inside the abbey after that wound of yours is healed properly," He said, pointing to the bandages.

Shiloh drummed his fingers against the bed. "How exactly did that happen? Did this riverdog stab me with a spear after I'd gotten knocked out?" He asked, jerking a claw towards Roebak, who growled and narrowed his eyes in response.

"No, actually," Michael said, a hint of a grin beginning to form on his mouth. "You fell on your knife. Now, I have things that need attending to. Namely, the defense of our abbey. Roebak will remain here while you recover to make sure you don't try to escape. If you ever feel like talking, feel free to summon me. Until then, good-bye."

The Abbot stepped out of the room, letting the door close softly behind him. Roebak leant against a nearby wall and crossed his arms, bitter eyes never leaving Shiloh. The fox returned the stare for a few moments before shifting his gaze, looking at the small form in the other bed. "What's that?" He asked.

Roebak seemed to debate with himself for a moment, trying to decide whether to speak to the fox or not. Finally, he relented. "One of our young 'uns," He growled, clearly upset. "Took an arrow through the shoulder yesterday. Said he saw a fox do it." The malice in his words was not easily missed.

Shiloh seemed to take little notice. "Hmm, that's a shame. Hope he gets well soon."

He tried not to let the fear show on his face as Roebak advanced, drawing the dagger on his belt. "Listen 'ere, vermin, and listen good. If'n I could have my way, I'd skin ye alive right here and now an' let yore innards hang on the battlements to dry in th' sun. Thankfully for you, the Abbot's forbidden me from usin' this blade on yore pitiful hide so long as yore a prisoner here. But make so much as one twitch towards escapin', and ye'll wish I'd finished ye off last night."

Shiloh kept his voice level. "And the same goes for you, otter. Just remember this; the day I'm back with my archers, I'll have an arrow with your name on it, looking for your waterlogged pelt."

It was all Roebak could do to not leap forward and gut the cold-eyed fox. He took several deep breaths, finally storming out into the hall and slamming the door behind him.

Several times that day, a number of the abbey-dwellers came up to the infirmary, mostly to check on the young mouse. A stern-eyed volemaid, under the careful watch of Roebak, changed Shiloh's bandages during the afternoon. She seemed not to notice or care when he winced in pain, finishing the job quickly and leaving just as quickly.

It was the Abbot himself who brought up Shiloh's evening meal of leek and potato soup, with some blackberry cordial and cheese bread. The mouse conversed with him the whole time, seeming intent on drawing out any possible information from him.

"I suppose it must be difficult for your troops to maneuver in these woodlands, after so long in the open plains or mountain passes of the north."

Shiloh tore off a chunk of the bread. "I never said any of that."

"Well, I was mostly just assuming. But still, with so many fighters...Six score, it must be. Am I right?"

The fox remained silent as Father Michael berated him with a series of none-too-well-hidden strategic questions.

"I can't imagine marching all this way with all those polearms and shields. It must have been very tiring."

"Your commander, does he treat his prisoners like we have? I suppose it all depends on the beast himself, though."

Shiloh finally had enough. He snapped his gaze towards the abbot, narrowing his eyes. "No offense, Abbot," he said, not sounding much like he meant it, "But you'll get nothing from me. I didn't get as far as I have by wailing like a child with a splinter in their paw every time somebeast pressed me for information."

Michael pretended, none too eloquently, that he had anticipated this. "Then perhaps I should let Roebak question you? Although I must warn you, his methods aren't as civilized as mine." The otter in question went along with the act, exposing his sharp teeth.

Shiloh let one corner of his mouth twitch up in semblance of a smile. "I don't think you'd do that, Father. Sorry to break the news, but this isn't the only Abbey on this green earth. I've stayed the night in more than a few sanctuaries such as this. You've sworn yourselves to peace, to never harm another beast unless it's unavoidable. I doubt you'd be one to allow that otter any chance to cut on a prisoner, even if they are vermin," he said, almost spitting the last word.

Michael's eyes hardened somewhat, but he kept his tone level. "My only desire is to keep those inside these walls safe, and you are currently the only beast between me and that end. Do not take me, or anybeast else here at Redwall as simple or slow-minded. I will always place the well-being of my own brothers and sisters above those of the enemy."

Shiloh was silent for a moment, looking quietly at the mouse. After a while, he took a short breath and spoke. "You weren't always a monk, were you, Father? It might have been a long time ago, but you were something else at one time. You were a soldier, a warrior. Militia member, I'm assuming? Border patrol, perhaps, or even a full-fledged army? Though, there haven't been many of those in recent times. Believe me, I would know. As of now, the band outside your walls is the only one operating in all of Mossflower."

Michael was visibly surprised. He flinched a bit, and his eyes lost some of their firmness. "How..." A sigh escaped his lips. "I don't have time for this, I'm afraid. Maybe one of your companions will be more cooperative."

Sitting up rigid in the bed, Shiloh tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his shoulder. "Wait, what about my friends? Are they alright?"

The abbot stopped in his tracks and turned with a look of something near, but not quite resentment burning on his face. "If things were different, fox, I would be inclined to tell you they were dead, if for no other reason to see you broken. But, as the Abbot of Redwall, I cannot use something like that to my advantage. Both of your comrades are uninjured and being cared for. When your wound heals sufficiently, you will join them in the cellars, under full guard of course. Now, good-bye."

Shiloh sank back into the sheets as Michael left. At least Thorben and Harsk were alright. He would need both of them for any successful escape attempt. For that was the only plausible way he could see them leaving in the near future, save for in a pair of coffins. As Michael had said, he was not about to mistake these abbey-dwellers for a group of woodland bumpkins. Obviously they had some sort of experience with this situation, and more than likely knew how things were bound to turn out.

So for now, he told himself, the only reasonable action was for him to buy time and think. Think, scheme and plot.

He allowed himself a rare chuckle. Maybe all those sayings about foxes weren't complete nonsense after all.


	4. Chapter 4 Out of the frying pan

**Hey there, everyone! Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out, I just got back from a hunting trip to WI not too long ago, and I needed to catch up on my sleep. (BTW, getting up at 4 every morning to go sit in the snowy, windy forest is only fun if you see a deer) But here we are, so I hope this makes up for my absence. **

**Also, I want to mention again: DoF and WWC will be returning soon, I'm wrapping up some story concepts and will hopefully be implementing them within the near future.**

**So enjoy this chapter, read, and as always REVIEW!**

* * *

><p>He was awakened the next morning by a strange, almost alien sound. Groaning and trying his best to avoid the sunlight streaming in through the panes above, Shiloh finally realized what it was: The laughter of children.<p>

Looking over, he could see a small crowd of habit-clad youngsters gathering around the bed on the other end of the room. Its occupant, the same young mouse who Shiloh had been intending to slay not two days prior, was sitting up and laughing along with them, clearly overjoyed by the presence of his friends.

Shiloh snapped his head in the other direction when the infirmary door opened, Michael and Roebak both carrying a tray of food. The otter spared him a venomous gaze before moving down the rows of cots, joining the crowd of young beasts. He smiled and played along with them, genuinely happy to be in their presence.

"Sometimes I wonder why I accepted this position," Michael said, sitting down next to the fox and pouring two cups of tea. "With all its stress and work and constant worrying. Being Abbot has undoubtedly caused me quite a bit of gray fur, and enough excitement to last anybeast their whole lives. But," He said, looking towards the small congregation of joyful children. "Every time I feel that way, all I have to do is look at those smiles, and all of it seems to melt away. They make it all worth it." He said, a grin beginning to spread across his face.

Downing the tea in one massive gulp, Shiloh tore into a piece of nutbread. "Excuse me if I don't break down into tears of sympathy, Father," he said, not bothering with the cloth napkin at his side. "But frankly, it's not in me."

"And why is that?"

He was taken aback by the question, stopping mid-bite. After a moment, he continued on anyway. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you find it so hard to care for others?" The mouse asked, genuinely intrigued. "Even you must have a shred of compassion for somebeast. Your fellow soldiers, for example. You seemed more concerned for their safety than I would have guessed."

In a rare circumstance, Shiloh spoke without thinking for the briefest of seconds. "We're not soldiers." Immediately, he shut his mouth and ground his jaw.

Michael seemed confused for a moment, but then realization dawned on him just as quickly. "If you're not soldiers, then," He said quietly, "that leaves only one option."

"That's not what I meant," The fox said, desperate to save the situation. "I was just saying that..."

"You're mercenaries, swords-for-hire." Michael was starting to understand. "I could have guessed eventually. No uniforms, not a standard or flag to speak of. And," He said knowingly. "That's why we haven't seen a list of demands. Your employer must have put us under siege without telling you why. Obviously they wouldn't want the job themselves, but for whatever reason I can't..."

"Shut UP!"

Everybeast in the room froze at the sudden outburst. Michael jumped slightly, and Roebak turned towards the sound and began to reach for his dagger, but other than that everything went still.

Shiloh took a few deep, shuddering breaths before continuing, clearly forcing himself to remain calm. "Father Abbot, I think it would be best for me to be moved down to the cellars with my fellow troops. This conversation can be continued later if you see fit."

After a moment of awkward, strained silence, Michael nodded to Roebak. The otter stood, drawing his dagger.

Moments later, with his bonds cut and a blindfold fastened over his eyes, Shiloh was led out of the infirmary by the brawny otter. Completely blind, he was led down a flight of steps and prodded around for what seemed like forever. After a while, though, he felt Roebak reach in front of him and open a door, shoving the fox into the room before he had a chance to make a move.

Within seconds of the door slamming shut behind him, Shiloh felt two forms nearly slam into him and wrap his body in a tight embrace.

"Harr harr, I knew ye'd still be alive an' kickin'!"

"No way they could get rid of ol' Shiloh, eh?"

"What's this bandage fer? Here, lemme take a look..."

Shiloh slapped Harsk's paw away, already wincing from the rough treatment to his wound. "Easy, mate, that's still tender. Now, will you two please let go of me before I suffocate?"

The squirrel and ferret reluctantly backed off, overjoyed at seeing their friend relatively unharmed. "What happened to ye?" Thorben asked, gesturing to the bandage. "Torture? Knew we wouldn't've gotten off so..."

Shiloh smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I...well, fell on my own knife."

Ignoring their snickers, he began to survey their improvised prison cell. It immediately became clear that this abbey was not built with the intent of holding prisoners. There were still numerous crates and barrels situated about the room, most pushed against the walls. The only light came from a few candles arrayed about in wall fixtures, the pale yellow light flickering and dancing slowly in the still air.

"Have either of you been interrogated yet?" He asked, sitting down on one of the many boxes.

Harsk spoke hesitantly, almost like he wasn't sure of the answer. "Well, sorta..."

Shiloh cocked his head slightly. "'Sorta'? What's that supposed to mean?"

The ferret shrugged. "It ain't like any other sort of interrogatin' I ever seen, mate. No beatin's, no torture, not even a couple wood splinters unner the claws! Just a couple o' harsh words. Just askin' us who we are, what we're doin' here, who 's our leader, the usual bullocks. It don't make no sense."

"No, it makes perfect sense." He said, leaning back against the wall. "This is an abbey. They're all peaceable beasts; never raise a paw in anger unless their home's threatened, like it is now. Unfortunately, we happen to be the ones doing the threatening."

Thorben rubbed his chin pensively. "Mayhap we could use that, get 'em fooled into thinking we're more than just a score of paw-loose mercenaries. If they believe there's half a thousand blood-thirsty savages outside their gates, waitin' to slaughter 'em down to a single beast, they might be more willin' to negotiate."

Shiloh shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think that'll work. I spoke with their Abbot not too long ago. He's not to be underestimated. Never said it himself, but that mouse was a soldier once. I don't have any idea who or what he fought for, but he's far from some pacifist monk ready to lay down arms in exchange for his life. He's already got us figured. Our job is to do the same, just without him knowing that we did it."

Harsk slumped down onto the floor. "Won't do us much good, if'n we can't get outta this place."

The trio fell silent, each of them realizing the truth in those words. Plotting and scheming a way into victory would do them no good if they were still imprisoned down in the cellars of a besieged abbey.

It had been almost a solid hour, with nothing but the sound of their own thoughts to keep them company, when Shiloh got up suddenly. He walked from one wall to the other, murmuring quietly under his breath. Harsk and Thorben looked at each other worriedly as their fox comrade continued his pacing, placing his paws on the stone wall; one at the top, the other at the bottom, still talking to himself.

Thorben cleared his throat. "Uh, mate, why don't ye sit down for a moment? Ye look a little...er, well, crazy."

Shiloh ignored the comment. "How many stairs did you count on your way down into here?"

This was one of the squirrel's strange quirks. Everywhere he went; Thorben would take stock of the number of steps in any given stairway or ladder. This strange ability was honed to such a degree that he had no need to consciously think of doing it; he just _did. _He had always chalked it up to being aware of his surroundings, knowing exactly how many steps he would need to take to leave somewhere in a hurry just in case things went south.

"Four in all, leadin' down from the first floor stones. Why, what're you thinkin' of, mate?"

Shiloh rapped his fist on the brick wall next to him, at a right angle to the door. "This wall is about six paw-widths high. If each step is about one width tall each, that means..."

Even Harsk could see where the thought was leading. "It means this 'ere room isn't completely unnerground, part of it's restin' above the lawn! But..." He said, the realization falling just as quickly as it had appeared on his face. "Why's that important?"

Shiloh was staring at the wall like it was a living creature. "It means that there could have been windows in this room before, to let air in. They could have changed it when or if this place became a storage room. If they did, the gap would have to have been filled in with stone and mortar. That part'll be weaker than the rest, since they couldn't position it like the others. If we can hack it out, that might leave us enough space to squeeze out."

The other two caught on immediately. They began scouring the walls, looking for the distinct cracks or bubbles in the mortar that might mean a less solid joint, which might lead them to freedom.

As time wore on, their spirits dwindled. Shiloh was almost ready to give up and resign himself to whatever fate he was destined for when Thorben whooped. "Hey, I got somethin' over here!"

They crowded around the squirrel, desperate to see his discovery. He grabbed a nearby candle, ignoring the hot wax dripping onto his paw and holding it up to the joint. "There, see it?"

Shiloh couldn't stop himself from grinning broadly. Right there, along the top-most row of bricks, was a distinctly thinner strip of mortar. It ran for two full brick lengths, just enough for them to squeeze through if it came loose, and if their hurried calculations were correct. "Look through these crates," he said, "Try to find anything we can use to chip this stuff out."

They set about it with a will; digging through the containers in search of anything they could use as a tool. A jubilant cry rang out as Harsk discovered a box filled with gardening implements, including small hand-trowels and other assorted utensils. Passing out their discoveries, the three set themselves to the task of laboriously hacking away the mortar as dust and chunks of the stuff fell into their faces.

They all stopped in unison as the sound of pawsteps drawing close to the door broke through the sound of metal on stone. Whispering harshly among themselves, they tried to clean away as much of the dust as they could from the floor, shoving it into one corner and trying to clean themselves off as much as possible before the door swung open.

A rotund hedgehog stepped inside, followed closely by Roebak. The hog bore a large tray, which held three beakers and some assorted food. He glared at the three figures on the opposite end of the room, who lounged against the wall on the other side of the room. There was pitifully little light in the small chamber, but both of the Redwallers would be hard-pressed to find any sympathy for their captives.

"Dinner's 'ere, you lot," The hog growled, setting the plate down on the floor. "Can't believe we're lettin' the likes of you draw another breath inside this abbey, much less give ya any scoff. T'aint right, no siree."

After a few nudges from Roebak, the hedgehog made his way out of the room, still grumbling under his breath as the door closed.

Shiloh let out a massive sigh of relief as the pawsteps grew fainter. "That was close," he whispered, taking a chunk from one of the coarse loaves resting on the plate. "Far too close. We've got to do this quickly if we want any hope of escaping. Any more accidents like that could cost us everything."

Thorben sat down on the stone floor, chewing absentmindedly on the end of a carrot. "Ya know," He said quietly, not talking to anybeast in particular. "I been thinkin'."

Harsk sniggered quietly. "There's a first." But his jibes stopped abruptly after a sharp poke in the ribs from Shiloh doubled him over.

The squirrel continued as if he hadn't heard. "Something's tellin' me that Krieger isn't going to be too happy that we managed to get ourselves snared up like that. I can't quite figure it, but I got this feelin' in my gut that maybe...maybe returning to the company ain't the best of ideas."

Shiloh was taken aback. "What? Listen, mate, I know you're no fan of that weasel. Hellsteeth, neither am I, and you know it! But that's no reason to go running off into the woods just because of some twinge in your belly. We'll probably get an earful from him or somebeast else, maybe a lashing or two for letting ourselves get captured, but nothing serious. By the seasons, if you're that worried I'll take the whip for both of you. It's not like I haven't before." It was all too true. On more than one occasion, Shiloh had gotten on Macepaw's bad side and done something to warrant a punishment. Nobeast was foolish enough to say anything against the weasel's fallacious charges. All he could do was bear the stinging whip like a true soldier, not the sniveling coward that Krieger had proven himself to be time and again.

Thorben shook his head. "No, it ain't that 'tall. I can't really explain it, other than it feels like summat's changed while we've been gone. Haven't ye noticed, there ain't any arrows or slingstones comin' in from the outside? We'd hear 'em if they was, and the Redwallers would be in all sorts o' panic."

Slightly surprised by the realization, Shiloh mulled it over. Thorben was right; during his days in the infirmary, he hadn't seen a single arrow, slingstone, or spear fly over the walls. No attempts to burn the main gates down, not even a few harsh words yelled out from the trees! Any proper siege would have had these woodlanders scurrying for cover whenever they poked their heads out of the door, and made every possible attempt to gain entry.

"You're right, mate," He said after a moment. "But right now we can't do much about it. Maybe this 'client' of ours changed the mission, or maybe we're waiting for something or somebeast to arrive. Right now, all we can do is try our damndest to escape and get back to the troupe. We'll worry about the rest later."

"Yeowch! Will ye stop stabbin' me in the paw with that bloody trowel?"

"Shuddup, will ya? I can't see for naught down here anyways, don't go blamin' me!"

"Would you two kindly _shut up _and keep chipping?"

Shiloh's hissed remark silenced any further conversation, but there were a few muttered curses as sharp flecks of stone and mortar cut into Thorben and Harsk's paws. They had been at it for two solid hours, and already their sweat-matted fur was covered in the powdery dust, turning them into eerie specter-like creatures. Ignoring the small droplets of blood oozing from their paws and the stinging in their eyes, the trio continued hacking away at the thin mortar. Already they had bored in a significant way, but Shiloh had a nagging feeling that their time was running out.

Thorben yelped suddenly, drawing his fingers back and waving them in pain. "Damn stone fell and crushed my..." His eyes widened suddenly. "It moved! The stone moved, mates!"

They went back at it with gusto. Bits of rock flew and the dust grew almost unbearably thick, but none of them cared. And as the heavy stone block suddenly slipped out of place, it fell to the ground with a dull _thunk. _Shiloh blinked rapidly, trying to allow his eyes time to adjust as the rays of late afternoon sunlight flooded in. He gathered the latter bit of information from the direction of the building's shadows, along with the booming of evening's bell.

He cast a scrutinizing glance about. Thankfully, his rudimentary calculations had been correct. Their small window, and hopeful escape route, rested not more than a finger's width above the level of the main grounds. His snout was mere inches from the fresh grass, and he couldn't resist taking in a few breaths of sweet, cool air before getting down to business.

From what little knowledge he had of the Abbey's layout, they were somewhere on the southern edge of the building. He could make out the impressive walls and ramparts, with at least two sentries posted along the top. The treetops of Mossflower seemed to taunt Shiloh not far beyond, egging him to run, run and escape to his freedom. But common sense won out. Escaping would take more than just a mad rush and desperate hope. More than anything, it demanded precision timing and cunning.

"What'dya see, mate?" Harsk was practically jumping from one paw to the other, desperate to know the full extent of their situation.

Shiloh's mind was already going at full speed as he stepped away from their small gateway to freedom. "The southern wall gate isn't too far from here, that'll be our best bet. But we've got two big problems; the sentries on the wall, and our gear."

Like most archers, Shiloh felt a special connection with his bow. He had crafted it by paw, after countless hours of work and scrutiny. It had kept him alive in the heat of battle and helped him earn his way towards a respectable position, even if that same career was in question at the moment. He had taken an unofficial oath the day that the weapon had loosed its first arrow; it was a part of him, and not something to be left behind.

Thorben jerked his head towards the door. "I think I saw where those abbeybeasts stowed the arms, when they were draggin' us in here. There's a small locker just on the other side of the hallway."

Shiloh nodded. "Good, if we move quickly enough we should be able to get them before anything happens. But that still leaves the problem of the sentries. And no, killing them isn't an option."

Harsk sneered a bit. "Goin' soft, eh Shiloh? Not like ye to spare the life of an enemy."

The fox just shot him an irritated glance. "It's not their lives I'm worried about, it's ours. Think of it this way, addlebrain: Let's say our plan doesn't work and we get caught again. Would you want to be that otter's prisoner after slaying half a score of Redwallers?"

Having seemed to gotten his point across, he went on despite the fearful expression on Harsk's face. "So where does that leave us? Even if those guards are just simple abbey-dwellers, it wouldn't be hard to catch all three of us trying to open a locked wall gate."

Silence reigned for a few moments as each of them wracked their brains for any plausible schemes. Harsk was about to throw up his paws and admit defeat when he noticed the malicious smile on Thorben's face. "Wot are you so happy about, cully?"

The squirrel got up and cracked his knuckles. "Watch close, Shiloh," He said, winking at his friend. "I'll show ye that foxes ain't the only sly, cunnin' beasts around here."

The sound of Abbot Michael's footsteps, along with those of another echoed in the confines of the stairway. Strolling alongside the aging mouse was a brawny hedgehog, Redwall's own Friar Drubble. The two were conversing in hushed tones, as the morning was still young and many of the abbeybeasts had yet to rise from bed.

"Are you sure there won't be any problems, friend?" Michael asked, folding his paws inside the long sleeves of his habit.

Drubble grunted, shaking his head. "Naw, I don't see anythin' coming of it, Father. That treejumper seems like a good enuff sort. Turrible story, though. Gettin' captured by them vermin, forced to serve as one o' their soldiers! Can't imagine such a thing, no sir."

Michael couldn't hide the furrow in his brow. "That's what concerns me, brother. It seems to me that our squirrel friend went from vermin fighter to poor, defenseless prisoner on very short notice."

The hedgehog friar didn't seem unduly concerned. "Pah, he's just a confused ol' soul. Tell ya what; I'll keep an extra-special eye on the lad, make sure he stays in line. Deal?"

Unable to say no to the cheery hog, Abbot Michael smiled and nodded his consent. "Very well, Friar. The situation is in your very capable paws. Now, how about I help you with breakfast? I can't stand lazing about. These old paws have to keep themselves busy somehow, after all."

Down in the cellars, Shiloh and Harks couldn't believe that their comrade had managed to finagle his way into such a position. They were still slack-jawed after the abbot had opened the door and agreed to allowing Thorben a position as kitchen helper, after the squirrel's desperate pleas to be free from "These horrible, filthy, deranged vermin murderers!" as he had so eloquently put it. His two friends had been too dumbstruck to say anything in retort.

At the moment, they were finalizing their escape plan for that night. Using some mortar dust from their previous escapade and some small wood chips, Shiloh laid out a basic schematic of the Abbey on the floor. The two sat about discussing their plans, looking up worriedly every time a door closed or somebeast walked past the door of their soon-to-be-vacated cell.

"I still say we just kill 'em," Harsk murmured, staring at a small pebble which they were using to symbolize one of the guards. "Easier, that way."

Shiloh growled lowly. "I'm telling you for the last time, I'm not going to be strung up and tortured just because you think it's 'easier'. These Redwallers might have played the generous, caring type before, but I don't know of anybeast who'd keep up that charade after we murdered two of their friends. No, there's got to be a better way."

It was a long while of strained, thoughtful silence before the ferret's voice spoke up again. "How'd yoo get caught up in all o' this, mate? Bein' a mercenary, I mean. T'weren't like ye were born to it."

Shiloh grinned mirthlessly. "That's a story long enough to fill volumes. Let's suffice to say that I fell on...hard times and it was the only way I could see to get out. Never thought I'd stay in this long, though. My plan was to go campaigning for a few seasons, get the coin I needed to head home."

Harsk picked at a corner of his ruddy tunic. "So why didn't ya?"

"I fell in love with it, the mercenary's life I mean." The fox leant back against the wall, exhaling slowly. "Lots of drink, more money than I knew what to do with, plenty of fighting, everything we'd come to enjoy on the Northeastern coasts, before-" He visibly caught himself, clamping his jaw shut for a moment. "Well, never mind. That's another story for another day." One of his ears suddenly twitched, and he sat up quickly. "And it looks like that day might be closer than we thought. Come on, get up."

They both waited apprehensively, poised for whatever might come through the now opening door. But the distinctive shape of Thorben's slightly gnarled tail relieved them both. The squirrel waved a paw hurriedly, hissing between his teeth. "Come on, we don't have much time! It's almost dawn, we gotta move now!"

The trio rushed through the open door, letting Thorben usher them along the empty, silent hallways. Echoes of their pawsteps on the stone floor were dampened by their hushed conversation.

"Where are the weapons? We need to get them before anything else."

"Down here, in a hallway closet. Come on, move yore fat tails!"

Shiloh reached into the cupboard, bringing out his bow and quiver and stringing the weapon in a flash. Worry was etched onto his features as Thorben and Harsk fished out their own arms. "Do you even have a way out?" He asked, the concern starting to show in his voice. "Or was this all just an attempt to get us all killed?"

Their rescuer, so to speak, ignored the acerbic comment. "I heard some o' the mice talking about a tunnel the moles had dug, tryin' to find some way out inta the woodlands. It's over by the east wall gate, near their little plot o' fruit trees. We should be able to sneak in without trouble."

Although he kept pace with the others, Harsk was visibly dissatisfied with their proposed method of escape. "Wait, did you say a tunnel? Uh-uh, I ain't goin' through no bloody tunnel, not a chance in 'ellgates!"

Shiloh spat back over his shoulder. "Fine, stay here and get captured again. But if you want any chance at getting home, you'll suck it up and crawl through that hole like the devil himself was chasing you!"

They slipped out of the abbey through an open window, slinking about in the pre-dawn shadows, using every scrap of darkness to hide themselves. Shiloh felt a twinge of exhilaration at the feeling of cool, damp grass beneath his footpaws and the smell of a fresh autumn morning flowing through him. Even as they made the short jaunt between the Abbey and the orchard, he was almost able to forget their situation. For a brief moment, he was back at camp, waiting on a kettle of pine tea to brew up and a kabob of roasted woodpigeon over the flames.

He was brought back to the present by the sting of a branch, whipped back into his face. Thorben was on all fours, clawing away a loose pile of dirt and loam that covered the tunnel entrance from prying eyes. The squirrel paused for only a second, making sure the bow was secure across his back before leaping into the hole. Harsk followed behind, albeit with much more hesitation.

"Do I really have ta..." He wasn't able to finish the sentence, as Shiloh's footpaw connected with the small of his back, sending the ferret head-first into the depression. Shiloh followed close behind, trying to spur his friend on. "If you don't move yourself, mate, I'm going to do it for you. And believe me, that won't be an enjoyable experience."

And then they were underground, crawling forward through a space not much bigger than themselves. Dirt clods rained down on their heads anytime one of them bumped the ceiling, and submersed tree roots tugged and clawed at their clothes. The air had already become heavy and warm, making every breath seem less satisfying than the last. The only sounds were paws scraping along the dirt and their heavy, labored breathing.

Harsk had simply closed his eyes, trembling in fear and pushed onwards only by Shiloh's occasional push. The fox could feel the dregs of terror start to rise up inside his chest, pounding at the inside of his head.

_You're going to die down here! _The voices screeched at him. _There's no air, no light, no nothing! Turn around, run, do anything, just GET OUT!_

Shiloh forced the panic down, down into the deepest parts of his mind that held such thoughts. They would fester and roil about like the demons they were, but stay locked up tight. Yet another skill he had been forced to learn since becoming a hunter of other beasts.

The darkness was more than a simple absence of light. The shadows had become a tangible force, pressing against his eyelids like a sheet of opaque cloth, dyed in the murkiest, most suffocating black that only the devil could envision. Shiloh relied simply on touch and sound, moving inch after terrifying inch along the tortuous passageway. He could hear Harsk's breathing suddenly fluctuate, like he was about to lose himself to fear.

Before he could say anything to calm his friend, Harsk began hissing excitedly, relief flooding into his voice. "I can see it! The exit, it's right there!"

Shiloh could almost feel the weight lifted off his back. They scrambled onward, pressing towards the rapidly growing light.

Light, however, was somewhat of a misnomer. It was still dark out, but to the three dirt and sweat-covered, wide-eyed beasts crawling out of a depressingly small hole in the ground, the meager starlight was brighter than any candle, almost better than daylight itself. Harsk, almost shaking with elation, took a deep breath of the cool night air. "Ahhh. smell that, mates? 's the smell o' freedom, tha's what it is! I tell ya, I never thought-"

His jubilation was cut short as Shiloh's paw wrapped itself around his snout, tugging sharply. The fox shot him a glare. "Shut up! Hell's teeth, what are you trying to do? There're at least five archers covering this spot, and there's no way they'd be able to recognize us at this range. Come on, let's find some cover."

They disappeared into a nearby thicket of underbrush, hiding in the dense clumps of clover. Shiloh glanced about, trying to find his bearings. "Alright," he whispered after a moment of silent deliberation. "As far as I can tell, we're only about four hundred paces or so from camp, due southeast. If we keep to the woodline, we'll get there soon enough without getting spotted. Let's go."

It was an easy enough task to slip between the thick stands of trees, as what little light the moon would have provided was being restrained by a heavy cloud bank sweeping in across the otherwise clear autumn night sky. The earliest fingers of dawn were just beginning to creep over the eastern horizon when Shiloh called a halt in their slow, methodical movement through the woodlands. The fox was swiveling his head left and right, actually sniffing the air.

Thorben appeared beside him, flicking his eyes between every stump or patch of shrubbery, alert for any unnatural movement. "What is it, mate?" He asked quietly. "Somethin' you don't like?"

Shiloh kept his vigil up as he replied. "We haven't seen any archers on our entire loop around these woods, and we're almost at the camp. Not even one sentry. There is definitely something I don't like." He thought for a moment, and then turned to the squirrel. "Stay here with Harsk. I'm going ahead to see what's going on. Best case scenario is they're just changing out the guard and we happened upon them at a bad time, but I want to be sure."

Thorben was about to protest at leaving him to fend for himself, but the fox had already slipped away into the pre-dawn forest.

Shiloh's hackles were already raised by the time he stole in close enough to camp to smell the cooking fires and hear the sounds of conversation. He was still too far away to make out any details, but the voices didn't sound altogether happy. He was sitting in the shadow of a large oak, trying to catch a small bit of whatever might be going on, when the clatter of chains nearby caught his immediate attention.

Not far off, chained roughly to another tree, was a rat. The figure was slouched limply against the tree, as if it were dead. But Shiloh nearly jumped out of his skin when the creature gasped for air, almost choking in the process. As he squinted to get a better look, it was clear enough to see what had happened to the poor beast.

He had been beaten savagely, to the point of missing fur and torn flesh. Blood leaked from one corner of his mouth and there were already flies starting to buzz about his head. The creature's chest was oddly disfigured, like part of it had been caved in. A rasping, wheezing noise came whenever he tried to draw breath.

Shiloh was immediately on the move, appearing at the tortured beast's side like a wraith. The rat gazed quizzically at him, as if not sure whether he was real or not. A few strangled words left his feeble lips. "Please, kill me."

Trying to keep his paws steady, Shiloh unbuckled the half-empty flask at his waist and held it up to the rat's lips. He shook his head slowly. "Not...long for the world...get away, get...away while you...while you still can!"

"Who did this to you?" He asked quietly, knowing that he had mere moments before this beast slipped away forever.

The rat was already beginning to fade. "I...I said we should...should leave, it weren't...weren't good enough fer...fer us...He...he didn't let me go, hit me...cut up me...me insides, won't let...save us, save...we..."

Shiloh grasped his shoulders, trying to pierce through the growing haze of death beginning to darken the victim's mind. "Who did this? Tell me, please!"

The rat coughed violently, speckling the fox with blood. He started to double over, gasping fruitlessly for breath. With one last burst of energy, he opened an already clouding eye. "Macepaw!" And then he died, unblinking eyes staring into space.

The sounds of the forest returned to his ringing ears as Shiloh stood up, a whipping fury staring to boil up inside him. "I'm going to kill that son of a whore," He said quietly through clenched teeth, "If it takes me twenty seasons, I'll cut him down like the worm he is."

He was too absorbed in his anger to notice the dull snapping of a wet pine branch behind him. When he turned around, all he spotted was a large, brutish figure raising something over its head. Then there was a crushing, searing pain in his skull and a burst of bright lights, and then the merciful darkness took him in its wonderful embrace.


	5. Chapter 5 The Andinnvaeng

WHAT? I'm not dead? Whew, worried there for a minute. I can't apologize enough for the long delay, Christmas break and vacation and all that. Hopefully this chapter'll make up for it, but that's up to you guys now, isn't it? :)

**WARNING: This chapter contains some seriously nasty violence/pain scenes. I kid you not. If you aren't comfortable with a little graphic display, I'd skip this chapter. That, and some language pops up as well. YE HATH BEEN WARNED!**

**R&R!**

* * *

><p>Shiloh sputtered and twisted his head away as a bucket of icy, muddy stream water was thrown into his face. As the cold began to fade, it was replaced with a searing, unmercifully throbbing pain in his skull. The ache was far worse than a simple knock on the head, or like the morning after a night of drinking. No, this was an agony that sent a lance of pain shooting through his skull and spine, all the way to the bottom of his toes.<p>

Through the fog seeming to cloud his vision, Shiloh could dimly make out what looked like one corner of the camp. There were a few tents some ways off, and fires burning near them. Creatures milled about, but the fox's eyes were having trouble focusing and made seeing anything past his own toes difficult.

Gradually, though, a few rational conclusions managed to burst through the pain. Firstly, his wrists were tied together and hung from a stout branch, so his paws were mere inches from the ground. Already his arms had gone numb from the contorted position. Along with that, he wasn't dead yet. Whoever had done this to him wanted him alive for some reason.

He struggled to remember what had happened. All he could recall was seeing the rat, tied to the tree and left to die of his horrible wounds. But then, a figure stepped into his view and the memories came rushing back like a hellish landslide.

Macepaw was clearly enjoying himself. The weasel bore a crooked, twisted grin on his scarred face and a twinkle of malevolent joy sparked in one eye as he spoke. "Hurts, don't it? I wouldn't know myself, o' course, but I bet that rat sittin' out yonder probably had a good idear. At least, he did 'afore I sent him screamin' and cryin' to the gates of hell. My oh my, ye should'a seen it! Wailin' and cursin', yellin' like a babe. I couldn't take much more o' that racket, broke the vagabond's ribs. Hard t' scream when yore lungs ain't more'n pincushions."

Shiloh didn't even attempt to sneer in response. There was too much pain, too much confusion, too much going on for him to think straight. He shut his eyes, listening as Macepaw paced back and forth on the wet leaves. "Now, I'm gonna have my fun with ye, you damned son of a devil, don't you fret yoreself o'er that. Oh, I'll make ye scream more'n that rodent out yonder, make ye beg for death to come. But first, I got a few liddle questions for ya. Who knows, I might even kill ye quick if ye give me the right answers." He chuckled lowly. "Then again, I might not."

The weasel apparently didn't appreciate Shiloh's silent fortitude. He smacked the fox square in the face with a heavy-gloved paw, the blow knocking his head to one side. "Look at yore betters when they speak to ya, bastard whoreson!" The next strike drove the air from Shiloh's gut, making him cough and wheeze painfully.

"Now that I got yer attention," the weasel said calmly over Shiloh's gasps, flexing his paw. "It's high time ye start answerin' me questions. First off, how'd ye get into that castle?"

Shiloh lifted his head enough to stare into Macepaw's dark eyes. "Burn in hell," was all he could get out before a blow sent his vision white and brain spinning in agony. The weasel was actually grinning; so much was his joy at the opportunity to torture the damned archer fox. "You're lettin' me have too much fun, cully!" He laughed, and then belted Shiloh in the chest. "How'd you get in?" He roared, throwing punches and kicks between every question. "What's their numbers?" "Who's their king?"

By the time the blows finally slackened, Shiloh was on the brink of unconsciousness. But Macepaw was an expert in his macabre craft. Before Shiloh could slip into the relief he so desperately craved, another bucket of cold water jerked him back into nightmarish reality.

Macepaw tapped his chin contemplatively, like he was trying to decide on what cloak to where, not how to make a beast suffer to the point of death. "Ah!" He snapped his fingers, not able to suppress a wicked smile. "I know just the trick."

Shiloh, in his state, hardly even noticed when Krieger disappeared. But his head jerked up immediately when his ears caught the tone of heated iron, humming and sparking. The weasel was clutching a steel rod used for stirring the coals of a campfire. Its end was glowing cherry-red, smoking lightly.

He was too terrified for words as Macepaw drew closer. "Let's have a little chat," the weasel said cheerfully. "Shall we?"

Shiloh's agonized screeches had only just begun to fade when the dark gray of early dawn began to creep over the horizon. He hung; limp, as the horrible wounds on his arms and chest continued to burn like the fires of hell itself. Delirious with pain, he flittered somewhere between life and death. It was like he was watching his own body from above, like an angel looking down on the horrific scene.

Macepaw tossed the gore-stained poker to one side, drawing his knife. The fox hadn't told him a thing, though that was simply because he couldn't draw breath between his tortured screams. _Oh well, _he thought as he grabbed Shiloh's right paw, _I can still have the curr's string fingers._

A shout of alarm cut through the morning air as the blade touched the copper fur. Macepaw huffed angrily, unhappy about being interrupted. But when he turned back towards the camp, his eyes went wide in shock. The weasel was sprinting towards the woods even before his discarded knife hit the dirt floor.

Shiloh thought he could hear screaming: his own, he presumed. He was trapped in a strange place of hazy darkness, balancing on the thin line between life and the misty clouds of the Dark Forest. The shouts continued for a while and then began to fade into empty space, like the sound of a stone bouncing off the deep walls of an endless well. He thought he could hear voices, distorted and far-off.

"...take him, he's a fox!"

"...care, he needs..."

"...won't be happy..."

"...into the trees, we..."

Shiloh could feel himself slipping, released of some earthly bond, and finally relinquished himself to the warm, comforting shadows.

Shiloh drifted back into consciousness to the sound of a crackling fire and the smell of cooking. For a split second, a moment of pure bliss, he couldn't recall anything. He had a terrible ache in his head, but that could be assumed after any one of his nights of drinking. There were warm sheets pulled up to his neck, and a soft mattress underneath. For that brief speck of time, everything was perfect.

Until, that is, the nightmares came back.

He shot straight up, sending a fresh wave of agony coursing through his limbs. Almost screaming in pain, he rolled over and gritted his teeth as his arms and legs burned incessantly, like they were on fire. Eyes clouding with tears, Shiloh tried desperately to make the searing torture stop.

Somebeast touched him lightly on the shoulder, and he yelped in surprise and pain. More paws grabbed him, trying to hold the terrified fox down. Shiloh kept struggling, thrashing and crying out in fear. All he could see was Macepaw's grinning face, and hear the sizzle of burning flesh. His whole world had turned into a swirling darkness of evil laughter and bright red flames.

That was, until something struck him, hard, across the snout. He slumped back into the blankets, panting, as he picked up the first voices he had heard in what seemed like eternity.

"Father! What were you thinking?"

"We had to calm him down somehow, seemed like the right choice at the time."

"Oh, will you just stay back and let me deal with this?"

There was the muffled sound of pawsteps on a wooden floor, and then the melody of a soft, comforting voice flooded into Shiloh's ear.

"It's alright, sir, nobeast is going to hurt you. Everything's alright."

Shiloh eased his eyelids open, taking in the scene. There were two squirrels standing beside the bed, an older male and, even in his confused state, an admittedly beautiful maid. The room was not much bigger than the average tent, shaped like a circle and with a small fire burning in a hearth nearby. The walls were ringed with cupboards and shelves, filled with everything from bundles of feathers to colorful stones.

The maid slowly sat down on the edge of Shiloh's bed, with a look of genuine concern etched onto her features. The male, on the other hand, looked more perplexed than anything else. He stood nearby, arms crossed but with one paw near a dagger, it's sheath sewn into his thick jerkin.

Shiloh opened his mouth to speak, but it came out as more of a choked rasp. "What's...who are you?"

"I'm called Eleyna," The maid said gently. "This is my father, Rothgarr." She motioned to the burly male.

Rothgarr acknowledged him with a short nod. "I'll admit, bushtail, I'm surprised to see you're still alive. Most normal beasts would've died within the hour, but my daughter felt she could save you." He didn't bother to hide his distrust. "Why she did it I'll never know."

"Father, please!" Eleyna reprimanded him sharply. Surprisingly, Rothgarr closed his mouth and kept silent. She turned back to Shiloh. "Can I check your temperature?" She asked, standing up. "I want to make sure the medicine is working."

Shiloh nodded hesitantly, and flinched a little when she raised a paw. But he relaxed somewhat when she placed it on his forehead, humming to herself. "Well," she said after a few moments. "You're not running a temperature, which is at least one small mercy, hmm? I can get you some tea, if you feel up to it."

Again he nodded, so she went to the fireplace and removed a kettle hanging there and poured a glass of the strong-smelling brew. "Here," She handed the cup to him. "Pine needle tea with a hint of nightshade, for the pain."

He winced as he lifted an arm to reach for the beaker. There were clean bandages wrapped around both limbs, with what looked like a poultice underneath. Eleyna glanced at the dressings, not able to hide the strange look in her eyes. "Never before," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I've never seen anything like that before. Most beasts would have died almost immediately from that kind of torture. But..." She managed a thin smile. "You're obviously not like most beasts."

Shiloh wasn't sure how to respond, so he sipped awkwardly at the tea. Almost immediately, he could feel some of the edge taken off the pain as the warm liquid passed his lips. This young squirrel knew the ways of the healer; that much was for sure. She checked his eyes carefully, examining the dark bruises starting to form on his face and wrists. He forced himself to look away as she carefully undid the bandages around his scorched arms. She was silent for a few moments, studying the wounds by sight alone. Finally, she sighed and re-wrapped the wounds just as carefully. "I won't lie to you, sir. This looks terrible. I think it'll heal fine by itself, but..." She couldn't stop from shaking her head sadly. "I've never seen burns like that before in my life. They almost look like somebeast did them on purpose."

"They did."

Eleyna looked up at him sharply, trying to keep her voice level. "What?"

Shiloh ground his teeth together, trying to force the sounds of burning flesh out of his mind. He couldn't do anything, just scream and scream and scream, silently begging for somebeast to end it all.

"It was intentional," He managed to break himself out of the trance, blinking away the recollection. "I was captured and tortured, by a beast named Krieger Macepaw. He took over the band of...the group I was with, and I fought back." It wasn't a complete lie. Of course, he wouldn't have cared much if it was. And his chances most likely wouldn't improve if Rothgarr learned he was a mercenary. So for now, it was time to bide time and pray for a miracle.

The young squirrelmaid shook her head sadly, genuinely disturbed by the revelation. "It's hard to believe somebeast could treat another living creature like that," She said quietly, staring down at her paws as she worked. "I just can't wrap my head around it."

Shiloh chose to keep his mouth shut, which was most likely for the better. While she might have been entirely focused on treating her patient, the calculating look in Rothgarr's eyes wasn't hard to notice. That squirrel was every inch the fighter, Shiloh knew with utter certainty. He would use any excuse, any slip of the tongue at all to gut and dress the fox like a speared fish. Once again, he slipped into the simple-minded bumpkin.

"Where are we? I mean me, er..." He stumbled over the words, still somewhat dazed.

Eleyna spoke before her father could say anything against it. "Southeast Mossflower, about a day and half's march from the Abbey. I went with my father and some of the Light Scouts; they had heard rumors of some band of criminals attacking the abbey."

Rothgarr jumped in. "Aye, and I'm glad we did. Turns out there were a whole crew of the villains, trying to knock their way into the place. We routed the lot good and proper, took what loot we could and headed back into the trees. Nobeast can outrun or outshoot my Scouts and me. Those vermin never knew what hit them."

He tried to seem unworried on the surface, but inside his head Shiloh was almost screaming in panic. The whole camp had been attacked? What had happened to the rest of the archers? His archers! They had been his responsibility, every one of their souls. Now most of them were burning in Hellgates, cursing his name with each passing moment as the devil tormented them for all eternity. And it was all because of him. He had caused this slaughter; Shiloh knew he was at fault. Maybe if he had gotten back sooner, he could have seen the squirrels coming. Maybe if Macepaw...

His fists clenched tight to the point of piercing skin at the thought of the weasel, cackling as Shiloh's tortured screams rose into the sky. Macepaw had brought this fate down on their heads.

The bloodlust faded somewhat as Eleyna's voice broke through his clouded thoughts. "Excuse me, but I never did catch your name." He was ready to snap a reply at her, still furious over the thought of Krieger's heart still beating inside his chest, but caught himself and forced a half-smile.

"Shiloh," He said.

It took ten more days and a number of attempts before Shiloh felt well enough to get up and walk about the small home. Sometimes, when his tired and feeble paws met the floor they simply collapsed underneath him, like they were mere sticks. But finally, after a few dozen tries and more cursing than was probably necessary, he was able to walk again. Eleyna guided him by the paw, until she felt comfortable letting him try it by himself.

When he finally did, it was a feeling that he could only compare to drawing a bow. A simple, yet exhilarating sensation that made his heart beat like a triphammer. The horrible wounds on his arms and legs began to heal, though he was sure that they would leave behind huge and twisted scars, reminders of what he suffered at the paws of that maddened weasel.

Eventually, Eleyna agreed to let him go outside the home for a short while. It was only then that he realized that the small dwelling was nestled in the thick branches of a massive oak tree. The brush had been pulled back and woven into an intricate patter, to create a dome for the living space. A thick rope ladder, disguised with leaves and moss woven into the cord, led down to the forest floor.

He was a bit wary when Rothgarr volunteered to escort him instead of Eleyna, but decided that the squirrel had already passed on several opportunities to kill him, so why do it now? He descended the hidden ladder and took his first steps on solid ground in what felt like ages. The chill of autumn was beginning to deepen, and the dead leaves underpaw almost disintegrated with each step. After a few minutes to make sure he would be alright, Shiloh allowed Rothgarr to lead him through the dense trees. The squirrel had told his daughter that they searching for mushrooms, but it was clear that he had other ideas.

"So, where do you hail from?" He asked casually after a few minutes of silence, permeated only by the sounds of the forest.

"The Northlands, near the coast," Shiloh said just as nonchalantly. "I left home when my old dad couldn't take it anymore and booted me out. Said it was the best thing that ever happened to him."

"So that's when you became an archer?"

Shiloh stopped in his tracks, muscled tensed like coiled springs. He stood frozen to the spot, fear shooting through his body like a river of ice. Rothgarr's paw had strayed near the small axe fastened on his belt as he gazed coldly at the fox. "Don't try to play the fool, bushtail. I knew it from the moment we found you. I've commanded enough arrow-slingers in my day to recognize one. Calloused string fingers, sharp eyes, the works."

Shiloh swallowed nervously, trying to get his heart back into its original position inside his chest. "You seem awfully informed for somebeast living in a tree."

Rothgarr's fingers were beating a valley into the blade of the hatchet. "I wasn't always the country bumpkin, and I'm still not convinced I am. When beasts' lives are in your paws, you learn quick enough to pick up on the subtleties. Like you being a hired soldier, for one."

It felt like somebeast had kicked Shiloh in the chest. "How..."

"How'd I know? Simple. We raided the camp and found your troupe's contract. That, and quite a bit of extra loot. Like a longbow, for example."

The squirrel strolled to a nearby elm tree, long since dead with only half of the stump still showing, and reached inside. He produced a linen bow case, along with the waxed quiver. Shiloh was so stunned he almost dropped the bundle when Rothgarr tossed the lot over to him. "I've seen a lot of bows in my day, boy," He said quietly, leaning against the trunk, "But I'll admit that's a piece of work you've got there. Not squirrel work, mind you, but still a decent bit."

Shiloh could almost feel the wood come alive in his paws as he ran them over the flawless yew. Not a scratch, crack, or splinter to be seen, and it had even been treated with an extra coating of oil. He looked up from the bow to Rothgarr, back down again, and up once more before finding the words. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because even though I hate to admit it, especially to a fox," Rothgarr took a moment to spit off to one side, "You seem like a decent enough beast, for a _andinnvaeng._"

Shiloh's head snapped up at the word. He might have left long before, but he had remembered enough of the traditional Northlands tongue to realize what the squirrel was saying. "_Andinnvaeng? _The demon's wing?" He smiled darkly. "It's been a long while since I've last been called that."

Rothgarr grunted. "Any Northerner worth his salt knows what they are. Spawn of the devil, so burning with sin that Satan himself released them upon the earth to wreak their unholy havoc. Sounds a bit like an archer, don't you think?"

Shiloh slung the bow over one shoulder. "I might not be the holiest of beasts, tree-jumper, but I'm no demon."

"That might be the case, but..." Rothgarr suddenly stopped, turning his head sharply to one side. "Move!" He hissed after a moment, the malice in his voice replaced by urgent haste. "Somebeast's coming, sounds like two of 'em walking up the path."

The squirrel quickly ascended into the high branches, while Shiloh climbed into the lower-hanging underbrush of a nearby oak. He had just enough room to string the bow and notch a white-feathered arrow onto the cord. From his vantage point, he could clearly make out the well-worn trail leading through the dense underbrush. The sounds of murmured conversation reached his ears, but it was too muddled to make any sense of it. Shiloh ran his fingers over the fletchings, subconsciously adjusting his pre-empted aim for any misgivings in the goose feathers.

Two figures, still hidden somewhat by the shadows of the trees, slowly made their way down the haphazard road. Even from his camouflaged perch, Shiloh could tell that they were tired and pawsore, not even bothering to look about at their surroundings. They never heard the slight rustle of leaves as he drew the bow and let the string roll of his fingers in one short motion.

The heavy arrow thumped into a long-dead oak stump not three paces in front of the figures. Before it had stopped quivering, a second shaft sailed into the ground right at their paws. Both beasts stopped dead in their tracks, frozen to the spot by utter shock. Before either had a chance to run, Shiloh called out in a guttural cry, "The next arrow kills! Make one more step, and your carcasses will be consumed by ravens before night has fallen. I am the Andinnvaeng, guardian of Hellgates and the souls of the damned!"

Shiloh flinched involuntarily at the last bit, not intending to actually say the words. They had seemed to come up from the deepest, haziest wells of memory like a ghost. But they seemed to have the desired effect, for both beasts standing ahead were as still as rock.

He slipped back into the terrifying voice. "Now, answer truthfully or I will release the hounds of the devil upon you! Who are you and what is your purpose here?"

One of them spoke, and Shiloh nearly slapped himself in the sudden chagrin. "We are just travelers, bound for the coasts! We mean ye no harm, great one!"

It was Thorben!

Shiloh was a mere second from opening his mouth and alerting the squirrel to his real identity, but a fox's sly nature is ill suppressed. Grinning to himself, he called back threateningly. "You lie, scum! I detest liars; I feed their weeping souls to the great maw of fire and smoke, to singe the flesh from their bones!"

Harsk, standing next to his friend, immediately fell on his knees, weeping openly. "Oh please, sir! Have mercy on us pore an' weary beasts, we ain't meanin' ye no harm! Please spare us, yer mightiness, please please please..."

His cries fell to a muted babble as Shiloh dropped from the tree and onto the path not ten paces from them, smiling like a young one who just stole their grandmother's pie. He leaned casually against the bowstave, tapping his claws against it. "By the fires of Hellgates, you'd think I was a demon or something. Backbone made of pudding, I see."

The ferret could only stare, mouth agape. Thorben, on the other paw, was seething with rage. His face was beginning to turn bright red, and both paws were balling up into tight fists. "Why, you connivin', filthy, lyin'..." His words descended into one indistinguishable growl of rage.

Shiloh fell back with a loud _oof! _as the two knocked him to the ground, laughing and whooping for joy. The fox winced as Thorben put him in a headlock, tussling the fur on top of his head. "By thunder, I knew they couldn't kill ya!" he said, shaking with mirth. "No way they could, you tough ol' piece of gristle!"

They eventually released him, still laughing. "You sure are a sight for sore eyes, mate," Thorben said, patting him on the back, "We ain't seen anybeast of a friendly sort since we jumped ship, so t' speak."

"Wait, what do you mean?" Shiloh finally recovered enough to get a word in. "You deserted?"

The squirrel snorted ruefully. "Deserted? More like liberated ourselves, is what. Things've gone south, mate. We're in a bad sort. Macepaw..."

"Ahem."

The trio turned to see Rothgarr, standing a few paces down the path with both arms crossed, one holding the paw-axe closely and with a look of cold scrutiny etched onto his features. He tapped the blade methodically, an obvious sign that he was not overjoyed at being so excluded.

Shiloh broke the awkward silence. "Er, mates, this is Rothgarr of Mossflower. His daughter's a healer, she fixed me up after...well, she helped me and he was kind enough to let me stay in his home. Rothgarr, this is Thorben," He gestured to the squirrel, who nodded curtly, "And Harsk," The ferret did a low, sweeping bow, smiling with his crooked teeth.

"Top of the afternoon to ye, sah! Pleased t' meet yore acquaintance, ah'm sure!"

Rothgarr frowned, pointing at the ferret with the axe-head. "He's one of your friends?" He asked shortly.

Shiloh nodded. "He is. Smart lad, quick as any I've seen with a dagger or pick set. Had hardly left his Ma's arms before he fell in with our lot."

It was true. Youngest out of them all, Harsk could scarce be considered to be out of his childhood years. His bright gray eyes and disarming smile, along with his somewhat diminutive stature, made many beasts underestimate their opponent. But already Harsk had proven himself a born killer, letting his victims drop their guard before slitting them from rib to rib with his razor-sharp dagger.

Rothgarr, however, was not so easily fooled. He growled lowly. "He's not entering my house; I don't trust him as far as I could throw the little bugger."

Danger flashed in Harsk's eyes, but Shiloh interceded quickly. "We'll not be long. All we need is a few moments to gather our supplies and talk a little...business before being on our way."

The squirrel mulled it over, tapping a footpaw on the ground. "Fine," He almost spat, "just so long as you're gone before daybreak. And don't think," Rothgarr said, staring directly at Harsk, "That I won't be watching you."

Harsk smiled again, a small gleam in one eye. "Don't think I wasn't expectin' ye to, tree-jumper."

By the time the four of them returned to the hidden abode, Eleyna had already fixed supper. She greeted them all warmly, even Harsk, and couldn't resist a small eyelash flutter at Thorben, who tripped over his tongue in thanking her for the meal. Rothgarr just narrowed his eyes.

It was simple, hearty fare. Plain bread, with almonds and the like baked into the loves. Shrimp and hotroot stew, along with pear cider to cool the fiery dish. There were platefuls of roasted fish and small bowls of vegetables, passed around to each beast. Thorben and Harsk tore into the food ravenously, having eaten nothing save for a few wild mushrooms and the occasional pawful of berries in the past days. They were so enamored with the meal that they did not get around to telling their tale until the vessels had been cleared away.

Thorben started. "Right after you'd set off towards the camp to see what was what," He said, jerking his head towards Harsk, "Me an' the lad here waited near the tree line running along the path, hid in some bushes. Well, I'm shore glad we did, 'cause not ten minutes later the camp got hit. I was getting ready to march in there and fiddle out the situation when two of the tents went up in a huge burst o' flames, just like that! Before anybeast could get their heads goin', they got hit with a volley of arrows. I'll tell ya somethin', mate. I thought we'd done badly before with our archers. This was..." He shook his head slowly. "I ain't seen naught like it before. Most of 'em was comin' from the trees, cuttin' beasts down afore they even had a chance to get up.

"Well, Harsk an' I bugged out soon after. There was enough confusion in camp it was simple enough matter to slip outta there. I caught a glimpse of Macepaw turnin' tail and runnin' for the woods, with at least a score an' a half of beasts with him, but by then we were already movin' out, I didn't see any more'n that."

Shiloh was quiet for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the tabletop before speaking. "You said Macepaw was being followed. By ours or the ones attacking?"

"Ours, I could make out a couple of the beasts-at-arms, along with that rat Sairus. They ran into the woods, heading south."

He exhaled slowly. "I think we're deeper in the hole than we realize. If those beasts were intentionally following Macepaw, that means he's taken complete control. I thought I'd seen the worst of it, but..."

Harsk snapped his head up. "Wait, whaddya mean?"

Shiloh told them about what had occurred that day, when Krieger had captured and tortured the archer fox. He rolled up one sleeve, exposing the gruesome scars. "I don't know what game that sick weasel is playing at," he said, ignoring the looks of disgust on everybeast's' face, "but whatever it is, he's getting farther along than I thought. And knowing Macepaw, he won't take a routing like that easily. He'll be back."

The ferret leaned back in his chair lazily. "So what? I didn't sign on fer this malarkey. We kin disappear, head off and find a better crew, one that ain't run by a bloody daft weasel."

Eleyna spoke for the first time that night. "What about Redwall?"

The trio just looked at her strangely, like she had proposed that they all sprout wings and fly away. Harsk cocked an eyebrow. "What about 'em?"

She seemed astonished by their reaction. "You can't just leave them! Like you said, this Macepaw will return sooner or later, and the Abbey'll be his first target. We can't just leave them in there to die!"

Shiloh kept his voice level, speaking quietly. "It isn't our fight. Besides, the contract is still valid; and knowing Krieger he'll do whatever it takes to fulfill it. As much as he likes to speak about honor and the like, he's motivated by one thing: Reward. Coin, treasure, weapons, slaves, anything he can scrounge out of the ashes of battle. We'd last about as long as long as a snowflake in hell going up against him."

"We can get help!" Eleyna said, standing up and slamming a paw down on the table. "There's got to be somebeast willing to defend Mossflower, we've done it before and won every time. I won't just stand by and let Redwall be defeated!" She stormed out of the room, disappearing into the tops of the tree.

Rothgarr shook his head slowly. "Born with a heart of gold, that one." He took a moment to cast a withering glance at Shiloh. "Not that you'd know anything about that."

Shiloh watched as the squirrel departed, closing the door to a bedroom behind him. His friends shifted awkwardly, Harsk being the first to open his mouth. "So...wot's the plan, then?"

"Same as it was," he said after draining a half-empty tankard of ale. "Leave in the morning and strike out north. There's got to be a roving band or sea captain we can join up with."

The matter appeared to be settled, until Thorben cleared his throat. "We aren't giving that maid's idea any weight, I take it?"

He gave the squirrel a look. "No. Why, are you suddenly interested in being the plucky hero? I've seen the consequences of that enough times to know that it's a bad idea."

Thorben narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, since you'd know so much about bein' a hero, let alone a beast with half a decent heart in him."

Shiloh's paw was already straying close to the dagger at his belt as he spoke in a venomous tone. "Don't start down this road with me, Thorben. It's not going to get you anywhere except a fat lip, or worse."

"Oh, so yore threatening me now, is that it?" The squirrel hissed, getting up from the table quickly. Shiloh was on his paws just as fast, the knife drawn before he even realized it.

Thorben took a long, wavering look at the blade before spitting on the floor and turning towards the ladder, descending the rungs in a flash. Harsk stood by uncertainly as Shiloh took a shuddering breath, falling back into the chair like he had just run for ten leagues. The fox murmured quietly, keeping his eyes closed. "Ignore him, lad. He'll be back."

The night air was still and damp, the stars hidden behind a thick blanket of pre-dawn clouds. A cold breeze was sifting through the boughs of pine and oak, rattling the branches like hundreds of dry bones. Darkness, like a heavy blanket of ash, seemed to suck what little light there was out of the world and extinguish it ruthlessly, leaving the forest frozen in time.

Standing on a small balcony hidden by the dense leaves, Shiloh stared absentmindedly. He had told Rothgarr that he was taking guard duty, just in case some of Macepaw's creatures were still in the area. In truth, he just needed somewhere quiet to think. Thoughts were plaguing him doggedly, drifting through his mind just at the edges of consciousness and then vanishing like smoke as he tried to latch onto them. But still, one was always present, that kept haunting him like a phantom: What would become of Redwall?

He had told himself time and again that night that it was none of his business, that one way or another the abbey would fall. The only thing he would get for aiding the woodland sanctuary would be a sword to the gut or a mace to the skull. After all, those mice had taken him prisoner! For all that Abbot Michael had said Shiloh knew that deep down, all creatures were capable of evil, even abbey dwellers. Everybeast had their breaking points, when rational thought and kindness gave way to reckless hate and incessant violence. And if that time came, Shiloh didn't want to be there, no matter how much the Redwallers pretended to be so generous and warm-hearted. It would only be a matter of time before they fell into depravity under the shadow of war.

He looked up at the sound of somebeast opening a door and stepping out onto the balcony. It was Eleyna, two glasses of steaming liquid held in her paws. She gave him one, resting against a heavy branch with her own. "It's starting to get cold out here," She said quietly, gesturing to the cup. "I thought you'd like some hot mint tea."

Shiloh nodded his thanks, turning back to look out over the forest without saying a word. They both stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the muted calls of birds echoing through the trees. Finally, Eleyna took a short breath. "My father says you're an archer. Is it true?"

"Yes," Shiloh still didn't look away from his perch. "It is. A mercenary archer, as it were. Probably regretting helping me, I imagine?"

"No," She said, "No, I don't. Every life is worth saving, in one way or another. Even Macepaw's."

Shiloh spat over the ledge. "You'd probably have a different opinion if you've met that psychopath face-to-face. Personally, I'd like nothing more than to plant an arrow in his throat and watch him bleed to death."

Eleyna didn't seem perturbed by the crude threat, strangely. "It's only rational that you would think that way, after what you've been through. I suppose it comes with being a healer, wanting to save and preserve what life I can, even if that beast doesn't truly deserve it."

"I've found that it's much easier to take life than save it," He said quietly.

They were both silent for a few moments, and Shiloh assumed she had gone back inside until she spoke suddenly. "How many have you killed?"

He jerked his head up at her. "What?"

She stared back calmly. "How many beasts have you killed, do you think?"

Shiloh was dumbstruck. He had never been asked, never alone thought about how many creatures lay dead because of his bow. Every time he loosed an arrow, it seemed like the shaft was a living thing, acting on its own accord and spinning its own separate fate from his own. He had never thought of their victims, screaming and twitching as they were impaled by his arrows. But now, their faces floated out of the darkest depths of his mind, showing him the truth of what he had done.

"I...I don't know." He stuttered, trying to find the words. "I never thought..." His words trailed off, and he could only stare at the floor. "It's my duty," He muttered, almost to himself. "It's what I do, it's all I know."

Eleyna seemed to study him for a moment. "Do you regret doing it?"

Shiloh didn't know what to say. It was as if there were no words he could think of that would fit. Eleyna noticed his frustration and sighed, looking down at the now cold cup in her paws. "I visited the Abbey a few times, when I was just a few seasons old. Abbot Michael was still a recorder at the time, but I can remember how happy he always was, so overjoyed to be studying Redwall's history. I would sit for hours, listening to the stories of the Abbey's heroes and how they defeated the vermin who tried to destroy them. And at the end of each one he would smile and say something that's stuck with me ever since. 'We're all part of one big story, Eleyna. The only difference is that we can choose our own parts, our own adventures. And as long as we make sure they're the right ones, evil will never overcome.'"

Shiloh took a moment before speaking. "You think I'm evil, then?"

She smiled kindly for a moment before turning to go back inside. "I just think you haven't found your part in this story, yet."

**Thanks again for reading, guys! I know I'm terrible at updating, and in reply to a private message I recieved: Unfortunately, I don't have a set schedule for writing/editing/uploading. Most of my free time is taken up with other things, and college is coming up faster than I thoguht. I'll try to get things out as soon as possible, including WWC and DoF. And as a little teaser: I spent a good hour or so working on both those stories last night, so expect an update in the near future if things go well.**


	6. Chapter 6 An Old Enemy

**I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! And yes, I have yet more excuses. College this time, all twenty credits of it. D: I've been plowing through enough ancient greek literature and intermediate algebra to choke a horse. But rest assured I'm far from dead, and hopefully you'll be seeing far more of me in the coming weeks. **

* * *

><p>Everybeast was up and about before dawn the next morning, packing gear or, in Rothgarr's case, watching them like a hawk to make sure nothing was stolen. Even Harsk restrained himself, not wanting to be on the sharp end of his axe.<p>

Thorben's pack lay untouched from where it had rested the night before. Shiloh was not usually concerned with where his friend might have run off to, but the squirrel had been gone for quite some time. That, along with their confrontation the night before, left a nagging anxiety at the back of his mind. He tried to distract himself by inspecting each of his two-dozen arrows, making sure the shafts were straight, the feathers attached securely, and the arrowheads sharp.

He didn't bother to look up as Rothgarr picked up his bow, examining the weapon with an experienced eye and running his paws over the flawless yew stave. The wood has well-used and showed the obvious signs of use, but there was not a single crack or splinter to speak of.

Rothgarr flinched slightly as an arrow clattered to the floor at his paws. He picked it up, perplexed, until Shiloh spoke casually. "If you can draw the bow, I'll give you a free shot. It's not like I'd be able to move in time, after all."

For no other reason than to preserve his honor, Rothgarr picked up the weapon and confidently went to pull the string to his ear. But instead he grunted in exertion, arm muscles bulging as he barely managed to move it. Trying to hide his astonishment, he placed the weapon back on the table. "The Scouts don't use longbows, too unwieldy. A shorter bow works much better for what we do."

Shiloh absentmindedly rubbed a feather vane back into place. "And what is that, exactly? I know you're not Redwallers, yet your troops seem hell-bent on defending this place. Well, except for you, apparently. Even you didn't seem to take a liking to your daughter's idea."

Rothgarr snarled. "I'd die for the Abbey, vermin, and don't you dare bring my Eleyna into this! It's my sworn duty as a Light Scout of Mossflower to protect the Abbey, something I'm sure a beast like you wouldn't know much about."

The fox's paw began to stray towards the dagger on his belt, but he spoke calmly. "That still doesn't answer the question, friend."

Bloodshed seemed inevitable until Eleyna's excited voice came in from the balcony outside. "It's Thorben! He's coming back!"

Forgetting the past few moments as if they had occurred lifetimes ago, Shiloh rushed to look outside, down onto the forest floor. It was easy enough to spot the smear of brown and gray flashing through the scrub, branches snapping here and there. This was not the careful, planned movement of a professional soldier. This was the desperate haste of somebeast running as if the devil himself was pursuing. Before he could even shout a greeting, Thorben had clamored up the hidden ladder and fell onto the floor, gasping for breath and looking as if he had just seen a ghost.

He began spouting incoherently, to the point of sounding like a madbeast. Shiloh tried to calm the frantic squirrel as best he could while Eleyna got her healer's kit, starting to inspect him for wounds.

"Just a few scratches and bumps," She murmured, almost to herself. "Nothing serious. Thorben, what's going on? What happened?"

He finally collected himself, leaning against a heavy chair. "You won't believe me, mates," His eyes were wide and frantic. "I swear on me oath, I ain't seen naught like it before. Macepaw's got an army, linin' the River Moss!"

Shiloh ignored Rothgarr's hissed curse and Eleyna's gasp. "How many? We didn't have more than fivescore before we hit Redwall, and lost at least part of that." Thorben spoke like he couldn't believe even himself. "Hundreds, mate, I'll swear it on my affidavit. It's like a bloody sea of 'em."

"Where are they headed?"

He shook his head. "Straight for Redwall."

Shiloh was on his footpaws and buckling his quiver within moments. As he hefted the warbow, Harsk looked about, a confused look on his child-like face. "Wait just a bloody minute. Didn't we have some elab'rate plan about how we weren't goin' to do this? Shiloh, ye said it yoreself, mate! It ain't our fight, this ain't our job."

"It's not Redwall I'm worried about," He said, still checking over his gear, "it's this supposed army. After the scrap we had that first day, and after Rothgarr's fighters gave Macepaw a bloody nose, he can't have more than two or three score left. If Thorben's right, this problem is bigger than we thought."

Harsk grumbled and complained, but eventually joined the small party. Eleyna took a smaller bow and just a pawful of arrows from which she had removed the tips, leaving a blunt wood end. Shiloh noticed, but just shook his head and continued on with his own preparations.

The morning had dawned gray and dark by the time Thorben, Harsk, and Shiloh left the tree and began their slow, methodical trek towards the river. Rothgarr and Eleyna had volunteered to stay in the branches overhead, in case they spotted something that the three down below didn't. Even with his years of tracking and careful observations, Shiloh was having a difficult time keeping an eye on the two squirrels as they flittered and jumped between trees like scraps of cloth on the wind. If all of the Scouts were like this, he thought to himself, it's no surprise the camp was ambushed so easily.

A light drizzle began, brought in by the thick fog and heavy clouds overhead. Shiloh smiled wryly; glad for the dampening effect the moisture would have on the sound of his paws on the forest floor, but knowing that he wouldn't enjoy the freezing rain after hours of stalking through the brush.

Their first sign of their reaching the camp was the smell of smoke wafting between the trees. Shiloh stopped and sniffed carefully, confirming that they were indeed moving in the right direction. Motioning with his paws, he told Thorben and Harsk to spread out and stay alert before moving out. The echo of talking and other camp sounds grew louder as they moved forward, stopping intermittently to listen and smell the air.

Shiloh froze at the sound of somebeast walking casually towards him, whistling in an off-key tone. In a flash, he disappeared into a small gulley just off the pseudo-path he had been following. It was hardly more than a ditch, just big enough to conceal his prone form. He drew his knife from its sheath as the beast appeared ahead of him, a rotund-bellied stoat with a spear in one paw and an improvised wood shield in the other. Oddly, he was lacking a field pack, water flask, or any of the typical marching gear a soldier would carry.

_Guard, _Shiloh thought. _Not a very good one, but then again..._

The sentry kept up his cacophonous tune, not focusing much on his assigned duty. He was tired, hungry, and miserable after keeping up his vigil for half the day. All he wanted was a jug of ale, a good fire, and some sleep. But orders were orders, and there wasn't much room for debate, after all.

But he didn't fail to notice the strange sight on the path ahead. A golden-brown biscuit, sitting on the ground like somebeast had just left it there for him to find. It was even placed on a small square of cloth to keep it off the dirt! The guard smiled greedily, bending down to snatch up the morsel. "Must've fallen outta somebeasts' pack," He said to himself. "Oh well, finders' keepers, losers..."

He got no further as a paw wrapped itself around his muzzle while another grabbed the stoat's leg, flipping him down into the ditch on the side of the road. Stunned from the fall, he could only gaze in shock at the beast pinning him to the ground. It was a fox, with a murderous look in his eyes and a knife held to the guard's throat.

"If I were you," He whispered, "I would keep very still and shut my mouth. I need answers, stoat, and you're going to give them to me. Otherwise, my little friend here," he said, tapping the knife against his victims' nose, "is going to ruin that hideous face of yours. Understand?"

The stoat nodded hurriedly, obviously not interested in suffering at the paws of this maniac.

"Good," Shiloh leaned closer, hissing into his face. "First question: How many are in the camp?"

The shaking guard held up four fingers. "Four hundred?" Shiloh asked.

A nod.

"Is Macepaw alive?"

Another nod.

"Where are you going? What's your objective?"

He released the quaking stoat's snout just enough for him to speak. "The...the c-castle over yonder, sire, Macepaw w-wants the t-t-treasure."

He narrowed his eyes. "Treasure? What kind of treasure?"

"I don't know, sire, 'onest I don't! All 'e said was sumthin' about a great treasure, enuff gold an' silver to make us richer'n kings, 'e did."

Shiloh swore inside his head. Macepaw might not have been the smartest knife in the drawer, but he knew what motivated every beast now under his command: Money, power, and greed. No matter what the odds, creatures would fight to the bitter end and do anything they thought necessary to gain the riches promised to them.

But it didn't make sense. Shiloh had seen the inside of the abbey, and nothing there seemed to indicate wealth of any sort. No gold candlesticks, jewel-encrusted goblets, or regal attire. It was all too simple, too benign for Macepaw's desires.

He looked back down at the stoat, whose eyes were fixed on him in terror. "I need you to do something for me, carry a message, as it were."

The guard seemed at least partly relieved. "Anythin', yer 'onor!"

Shiloh drew his face away from the vermin's. "Tell the devil that Macepaw is coming to burn in the fires of hellgates, and he's coming soon."

Before his victim could choke out one last scream, Shiloh drew his blade across the stoat's neck. The sentry choked and thrashed about, trying to stop the torrents of blood leaking from between his fingers. But it was no use. Gradually, his eyes rolled up and limbs went still, finally slipping away with a choked sigh.

Wiping the blade on the stoat's shirt and sheathing the weapon, Shiloh climbed out of the ditch just in time for Eleyna and Rothgarr to drop out of the nearby trees. Eleyna seemed shocked by the blood staining his shirt, but her father managed to piece the situation together. "Get anything out of him?" He said, not trying to hide his disgust.

Shiloh tried wiping some of the scarlet off his paws, relating the information the stoat had told him. Throughout the short tale, Eleyna kept glancing towards the nearby draw, like she expected the stoat to sit up and come after them.

"He's dead, lass." He said finally, drawing an arrow from his quiver and sliding it onto the string. "I did it myself."

She scowled at him as they set off in a southerly direction. "You didn't have to kill him."

He spat off to one side. "Yes, I did. I'm not going to chance somebeast alerting the camp and ruining our advantage. And believe me; what I did to him is an act of mercy compared to what Macepaw would do to us if we're caught. So keep quiet, don't interfere, and stay alive."

After a few moments of stalking, Shiloh regrouped with Thorben and Harsk, with whom he shared the new-found intelligence. They both blanched when he told them of the camp's numbers.

"_Four _hundred?" Thorben whispered, incredulous.

Shiloh nodded his assent. "Aye, at least twice as many as we had at the start of this whole mess. Where the bastards came from I've no idea. All I know is that we're not safe here anymore, nobeast is. Rothgarr?"

He stepped forward. "How fast can you have all of your Scouts assembled and ready to fight?" Shiloh asked him.

"Half a day, at the most," The squirrel was obviously apprehensive. "But it ain't going to do a lick of good against that Macepaw fellow you keep rambling on about. We're only eighty or so beasts, even at full capacity. Some of 'em are bound to be off elsewhere, running messages or the like."

Shiloh didn't seem to care, instead slinging the bow over his shoulder and making sure his equipment was secure. "Get as many of them as you can, and then retreat into Redwall. We'll be waiting."

Harsk's face was a mask of puzzlement. "Wait just a bloody second, yore tellin' us to go back inta the same exact place that was holdin' us prisoner not a week ago? We'll be dead afore we get t' the front gates! And even if they don't kill us on sight, what's stoppin' 'em from just takin' us captive again? Un-uh, no way I'm goin' back there."

"Fine, then," Shiloh said, giving him an irritated glance. "Stay here and wait to get snatched up by Macepaw. I have a feeling even those abbey mice would be more forgiving than him. And I don't think keeping us as prisoners won't be the first thing on the Redwallers' minds once they hear what's bearing down on them."

"Why'd they believe us, though?" Thorben asked. "They might've slipped up the first time 'round, but they ain't gonna do it again. We're not escapin' from that place a second time."

"We won't have to, not with Eleyna coming along."

Rothgarr's paw dropped closer to the hatchet slung on his belt. "And who said anything about my daughter coming along on this daft escapade? She's not going, and that's final."

"No, it isn't." He flinched slightly as his daughter spoke, for what seemed like the first time in ages. "I'm going with, Da."

The elder squirrel's mouth pursed into a thin line. "And what makes you think I'll allow it?"

Eleyna's voice was confident. "Abbot Michael and the others won't trust Shiloh and his friends, not if they're on their own. But he'll take my word, I'm sure of it. And there's not enough time for you to rally the Scouts and warn Redwall. Please, Da," She said, using the title she had learned as a child. "We have to."

Rothgarr seemed ready to deny the request once more, but then his shoulders sagged as the air rushed out of his lungs in a heavy sigh. "I don't suppose there's any talkin' you out of this?" He said quietly."

Eleyna didn't say anything, letting the resolution in her eyes speak instead.

After a moment of tense silence, he nodded. "Alright, then. Warn the abbey, I'll be along within a day or so. Be safe, darling." He said, kissing her on the forehead before gesturing for Shiloh to follow him. They stopped a few feet away from the group, and Rothgarr hissed a warning. "You keep her safe, vermin," He said, trying hard to keep himself collected. "You keep her safe, or I'll skin you alive and throw your twitching guts into the river to feed the pike. Do you understand me?"

Shiloh decided now wasn't the time to bring up their heated exchange earlier. "I will," He said. "I promise. She won't come to any harm."

"She had better not," Rothgarr whispered malevolently. "Or you _will_ die, fox. I swear that on my wife's grave." And before Shiloh had a chance to speak, he had darted up into the trees and disappeared to the world.

The gray, looming sky was already beginning to darken by the time they reached the forest's edge surrounding Redwall. A chilling mist hung in the air and made the going that much harder, though none of them complained. Shiloh felt strangely at ease in the wet gloom, slipping between trees and brush like a ghost. He remembered what Rothgarr had called him. _Andinnvaeng, _a winged demon sent by the devil to release their unholy wrath upon the earth. The irony was not lost on him as he moved silently through the foliage, not unlike a ghost.

He held up a paw to stop the three following him. Up ahead, the abbey's battlements jutted out against the sky, the glowing of braziers and torches visible on the walltops. And standing near those sources of light, illustrating yet another obvious mistake in the Redwallers' planning, were the guards. They stayed close to the fires in an attempt to keep warm, and at the same time illuminated themselves wonderfully for anybeast watching from the treeline. Most were armed with what looked like quarterstaffs or clubs, though he didn't doubt that at least a small few must have swords or bows.

Eleyna crouched next to him and followed his eyes towards the southern wall, which was facing them. She pointed, moving slowly as to not betray her camouflage. "There's a small gate at that wall, along with the main gate on the western wall. It's more exposed, but more beasts are guarding it."

Shiloh actually grimaced slightly. "For once, I'm glad for that. The main gate it is then." He looked behind him to where the shadows of Thorben and Harsk sat, nigh invisible to anybeast looking into the trees. Making a few short gestures with his paws, he followed suit as they unstring their bows. "Don't want to show up looking like trouble, eh?" He said to Eleyna, letting the yew stave rest across his shoulder as they stood. "Shall we?"

Brother Lucas, the same beast Shiloh had heard speaking on the night they infiltrated the abbey, was on guard duty over the main gate. He was a middle-aged hedgehog, with a significant girth around his belly and a cheery demeanor. When Abbot Michael had asked for volunteers for a night watch, Lucas hadn't hesitated for a moment. After the near-disaster with the fox and his crew, he had been yearning for a chance to play a part in keeping the abbey safe. So that night he had borrowed a large mallet from the cellars, bundled a scarf about his neck and took up his position on the walls overlooking the main gate.

Somebeast had been kind enough to leave an iron brazier on the stone floor, filled with charcoal. Lucas had eagerly lit the hearth, grateful for the heat it offered on that cold, wet night. Now, however, the heat was proving to be an issue. The comforting warmth, along with the warm cup of mulled wine in his paws was making his eyelids droop lower and lower with each passing moment.

He was dreaming, of song and dance and happy times with his family when a light tapping noise echoed through the halls of his mind. Murmuring quietly to himself, Lucas tried to ignore the rapping sound. But it was incessant, pestering him and pestering him to the point of annoyance.

A loud bang roused him from sleep, making the hedgehog jump in fright. He clutched the mallet tightly in both paws, risking a glance down onto the main pathway leading to the gate. Almost immediately, he recognized the squirrel Eleyna, looking up at him with a bemused smile on her face. Lucas was ready to shout a warm greeting and usher her in when he noticed the three other figures standing close by. They were vermin! He could see one clearly, a fox, while the other two were obscured by the shadows. Panic overcame rational thought, and Brother Lucas opened his mouth wide to shout the alarm.

"Vermin at the gates! Vermin at the gates! Redwall, Redwaaaalllllll!"

Before the small crowd at the base of the walls could protest, at least a dozen sentries appeared on the battlements, armed with an assortment of improvised weaponry and armor. Only a few carried any sort of real armament, which included a trio of drawn bows.

Eleyna shouted up at the defenders. "You daft lot, it's me!"

"Aye, and foebeasts!" Lucas shouted, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "What's the trouble, Ms. Eleyna? You need us to spit a few of the buggers for ya?"

"No, you sillybeasts! They're friends, I promise. We have important news for Abbot Michael, it can't wait. Please, just let us in!"

As if on cue, Abbot Michael appeared at the top of the walls. "Eleyna, is that you? What's going on, are you being held captive?"

She ran a paw over her face, trying to curb the harsh words twitching on her tongue. "No, Father, they're friends. We've vital information for you."

Michael nodded towards the three figures behind her. "I am not one to judge, Eleyna, but it appears that your friends are the very beasts who broke into our abbey not too long ago. Believe me when I say they're not to be trusted."

Shiloh had had enough. He stepped forward and cupped both paws around his mouth to below at the spectators above. "Unless you want this abbey and everybeast in it to be a pile of smoldering ruin by the end of the season, you'll open the bloody gates! We're not the ones you need to be worried about, Abbot."

The mouse gazed down at him, eyes glittering dangerously. Shiloh could almost see the command forming on his lips, for his archers to release strings and send the vermin to their deaths. But instead he turned to one of the guards and held a rushed conference before the squirrel ran off.

The main gates opened with a creak just as Shiloh was ready to unleash another tirade. Instead, he found himself confronted with a mass of lance points and drawn bows. He held up both paws in a placating gesture, watching as Abbot Michael approached, with the otter Roebak at his side. The latter held a large studded club in one paw, while the other held a sharpened stake at the ready. Michael glared at Shiloh and his companions. "You will surrender all your weapons and go peacefully if you wish to enter our Abbey. Whatever information you have brought, fox, I hope for your sake it is the truth. We are in no mood for subterfuge."

Shiloh reached for the knife on his belt, and Roebak had his lance ready to be thrown before the fox's blade clattered to the dirt. "Neither am I, Father." He said, letting himself be searched by some of the sentries, who had wandered forward. "And when you learn what's coming, you'll be glad I showed up at your gates."

He let himself be led into the grounds, along with Thorben and Harsk. Eleyna was speaking to Abbot Michael as the main gate shut behind them with a thud. Michael's demeanor had seemed to have calmed somewhat, but he still shot suspicious glances towards the three mercenaries.

As the guards stepped back to keep a watchful eye on the three, Shiloh noticed one of them in particular. He was a young mouse, with wide eyes and a bowl pushed onto his head as an improvised helmet. There was a stout ash staff in his paws, and a scrap of bandage visible under the habit he wore. Shiloh immediately recognized him; it was the mouse he had shot on the road before the siege. He felt an odd sense of relief that he had lived, an unusual sentiment for him.

_Lucky little bastard, that one, _he thought to himself. _If I'd hit just a hair to the left, he'd be sleeping with the worms by now. _

Abbot Michael broke his train of thought by speaking loud enough for all to hear. "All sentries, return to your duties on the wall. Roebak, assemble the brothers and sisters for a gathering in Cavern Hole. There's urgent business that needs to be addressed."

The gloom of Cavern Hole was lifted by the torches lining its walls, along with candles on each of the tables. Abbot Michael stood at the front of the assembly, where a dozen of Redwall's senior-most residents had gathered after much yawning and rubbing of eyes. But most woke quickly after noticing the three dirty, steel-eyed beasts sitting nearby. Murmurs of "vermin" and "what is the Abbot thinking?" were cut short as Michael raised his paws for silence.

"Friends," He began, looking at the curious faces. "As I'm sure you know, our beloved abbey and home is being threatened. While we may not know the intentions of our enemy, we can be certain of one thing: Redwall and her defenders cannot, and will not fall."

There was a rousing cheer among the assembled elders, and Michael had to hold up his paws for silence to return. "But we did not come here for speeches of a victory that is yet to be won. Unfortunately, I have received word that the enemy that assailed our walls not long ago is returning, stronger than before."

A voice rang out from the crowd. "Then we'll beat 'em back, just like las' time! We'll show 'em how Redwallers fight!" Michael once again had to wait for the applause to die down before continuing.

"You know I don't doubt your determination and courage, my brothers and sisters," He said, folding his paws inside the sleeves of his habit. "But overcoming this struggle will take more than sheer valor. It will take planning, preparation, and cunning. Now, thanks to Eleyna and her friends, we have an opportunity to fill those needs."

Michael suddenly turned and motioned towards Shiloh, who realized with a start that the Abbot was asking for him to speak. He stood and awkwardly faced the assembled Redwallers, more than one of which were eyeing him with a look of distaste. "I know that my contributions may not mean much to all of you, especially after what we did to your abbey. But all I'm asking is that you listen to what I'm saying, and make your own decisions. Feel free to lock me up to rot away for eternity afterwards, but at least wait until I've spoken my piece.

"I was part of the group attacking your abbey a short while ago, I won't deny it." He said after taking a short breath. "We were mercenaries, hired swords that swore their allegiance to the highest bidder at the time. We got a contract from an anonymous client, I never found out who it was. It said to march east, to find a place on the path..."

He related the rest of the story to the Redwallers, sparing them his personal encounter with Macepaw. At its end, though, he could still see the hint of animosity burning in some of their eyes. It was obvious that age-old habits of mistrusting vermin were difficult to forget.

"Krieger has at least four hundred fighters," He said, finishing the tale. "And..." He bit his tongue for a moment before continuing. "And I've no doubt he has more."

Before anybeast could interject, Abbot Michael had sat bolt-upright in his chair. "What makes you say that?"

"From what I gathered, they're too lightly equipped to be a full-fledged army. Believe me, Abbot," He said, starting to see the protests forming on the mouse's lips. "I've skulked around with one band or another long enough to know how they operate. Only a few of them were carrying any sort of supplies, and you only do that if you know another force is coming to resupply."

The Abbot seemed to dread the question he asked next. "How many do you think are marching on our walls?"

Shiloh glanced at the faces staring up at him. Some were confused, others angry and even more simply frightened. Frightened of what was to come, of what was about to destroy their very way of life. He had seen the same faces before, on soldiers on the morn before battle. Not knowing whether they would live or die, faced with the reality of their own fragile existence.

"At least a thousand, no fewer." The words came out as no more than a choked whisper, but the entire room gasped in horror. One or two buried faces in paws, while others just looked at him in stark fear. Abbot Michael composed himself well enough to continue the inquiries. "How long do we have?"

Placing his paws on the table in front of him, Shiloh tried to sound much calmer than he felt. "If I was Macepaw, I wouldn't attack with just those few hundred. I would wait until my entire army was gathered, and attack with every beast I had. That's how he thinks; one mass charge, to break the gates and storm the Abbey in one day of hard fighting."

"How long?" The Abbot was clearly fighting to keep his voice under control.

"If everything goes smoothly for him?" Shiloh said, "Three days, maybe four. But," He had to raise his voice over the surge of panicked cries, "but it won't. Weapons break, soldiers get tired, battle plans have to be drawn. I'd say six or seven days, in reality."

Father Michael sighed, his shoulders sagging. There was silence in Cavern Hole, save for the hushed whispers of a few. Shiloh could almost see the gears turning in the mouse's brain, whirring and clicking as he thought.

_There's something about that one, _he pondered to himself. _More than he's letting on to. Let's pray that 'something' won't have us dumped in a shallow grave by week's end._

"Bar the gates." Michael turned his head up, speaking with a steely resolve and sharp, glinted eyes. The position of a commander. "Seal them shut, and only open them in an emergency. Sentries will be posted on every wall around the clock, in rotating shifts. Foremole, are you here?"

A strange, rustic voice answered from the crowd. "Hurr zurr, that oi am. Roight here, zurr abbut!"

"I want construction to begin on barricades for the front gates. Don't put them in place yet, but have them ready in three days. Can you do it?"

The mole tugged his snout in acknowledgement. "Nowt a trubble 'tall, zurr. Moi crew'll 'ave 'er dun faster'n ee momma's apple pudden, ho burr!"

"Good. Friar Drubble, start taking inventory on our food stocks and report to me by the end of tomorrow. Rationing will begin immediately, starting with all the perishables. Fruit, vegetables, anything that can rot must be eaten before anything else. Understood?"

"Right away, Father!"

Michael went through a list seemingly conceived in his head not moments before. Water storage, barricade production, sentry duty, maintenance and damage recovery, there was a countless number of duties he assigned to each creature there, along with many jobs listed out to every Redwaller not present. When all seemed finished and the crowd began to filter out of Cavern Hole, he suddenly turned to the otter sitting nearby. "Skipper Roebak, you are to be in charge of training and equipping our defenders. Issue every weapon we have, and fabricate any that may be needed."

The otter saluted smartly. "Aye, father! I'll have a fightin' force ready and willin' by midweek." He turned to leave, but Michael stopped him.

"Not just yet, friend. You'll not be able to do it on your own. I want somebeast to help you." His eyes shifted to Shiloh.

Both him and Roebak blanched. "Father," The streamdog sputtered, "Ye can't...he's...it ain't..."

"I can't help...really, Abbot, I'm not sure if this is..."

Michael held up his paws for silence. "This matter is settled! Shiloh is our most value asset in this conflict. He knows our enemy, how he thinks, how he fights. Without that knowledge, this fight will be lost before it begins."

Roebak argued desperately for a few more moments, but finally accepted the Abbot's decision with a curt nod and malevolent glare at Shiloh. The fox waited until he had stormed out before speaking. "I don't know if that was the best decision. Roebak wants nothing more than to slide a knife across my throat."

"He's just another Redwaller, and like most of us, has learned to distrust vermin. Not without reason, I imagine." Michael said, allowing himself a wry grin. "But your job isn't to worry about our Skipper's misplaced prejudices. Your job is to help defend this Abbey."

There was silence for a few moments. Shiloh assumed that the Abbot was thinking to himself, and prepared to leave when Michael spoke again. "_Why _do you want to defend the Abbey, as it were? After all, it's not as if you owe us any allegiance. I wouldn't hold any grudge if you decided to leave, though we would be at a significant disadvantage."

Shiloh leaned against the sandstone wall, letting the nearby fireplace warm his paws. "Can I be perfectly honest with you, Abbot Michael?"

"Absolutely, my son."

He smiled ruefully at the last bit, but continued anyway. "It's not because I want to be here. In fact, there are a thousand places I'd rather be. But my chances of surviving out there," He said, jerking his head towards the door, "In the open, and without a company to fight for are slimmer than a beast during famine time."

"And you think your chances are better here?" Shiloh suddenly realized that the Abbot was speaking to him as an equal, not a prisoner or vermin to be watched and examined at every turn. "Despite the enthusiasm I'm sure you noticed, we Redwallers are not familiar with war and conflict." Michael slumped down in his chair, rubbing his brow with a gnarled paw. "I fear that we are in over our heads." There was a kind of desperation, an almost panicked tone in his voice, something that seemed unfitting of the strong-willed commander Shiloh had seen not moments before.

"You were right." He looked up in confusion at the Abbot. "What?"

The mouse allowed the ghost of a smile to spread across his mouth. "I wasn't always one of Redwall's mice. In my younger days, I fought for a great Badger lord, part of an army he had trained to fight alongside the hares of the Long Patrol. We weren't many in number, but there was devotion and courage in those threescore beasts to outlast any battle." He chuckled to himself at the memories. "I was promoted to Lieutenant, in command of a platoon of scouts and archers. That's how I was able to recognize your bow, in case you were wondering. We had similar weapons, though not as stout. Thankfully we only used them in competition and small skirmishes with the occasional water rat gang or roaming vagabond."

Shiloh nodded understandingly. "Grew too old for the job?"

Michael snorted, though not in any offense. "Too old? No, I would have remained in the service for as long as I could stand on two legs, if fate would have allowed me. Our superiors needed an emissary to Redwall, so I volunteered to stay at the Abbey and act as manager of Long Patrol forces in the area. But eventually..." his words trailed off.

"I found peace." He said finally. "Here at Redwall, there was a serenity that I had never known as a soldier. I loved it, and over time it trumped even my desire to be a fighter. Thankfully for my sake, our lord at Salamandastron understood and allowed me an honorable discharge, to become a brother of Redwall. And the rest, you might say, is history." He looked up, smiling and chuckling to himself. "An odd end to such a tale, don't you think?"

Before he could reply, Shiloh heard Thorben calling his name from outside Cavern Hole.

"Shiloh! Get your evil bones up here and help us move these carts. They're bloody heavy!"

He looked at Michael before he stepped out of the door. "Maybe you just found your part in the story, eh?"

The mid-afternoon tranquility of a sun-lit afternoon was broken by the twang of bowstrings and the sharp _tock _of arrowheads striking their wood targets in the Abbey courtyard, followed shortly thereafter by a sharp voice cutting through the sound.

"Draw to the ear, vole! To the ear! Is that your damned ear? I don't think so! And you; what sort of posture is that? Do I have to nail your paws to the ground? There, now keep your bloody head about you and give me three more shafts!"

Shiloh paced up and down a line of prospective archers, watching as arrows streaked towards the targets that had been placed seventy paces in front of the shooters. They were just wooden planks with white circles painted onto their faces, about the size of a barrel top, but they performed their jobs well enough.

Most of the shafts whizzed past the targets by mere inches, and the ones that did make contact were apt to bounce completely off. Shiloh cursed both the light bows and blunted arrows that the Redwall armories had supplied, neither of which had the killing power for what was to come. This, along with the fact that many of these creatures had little to no experience drawing a bow, was blackening his already foul mood.

He noticed a mouse pulling the cord to his chin and squinting, trying to aim down the arrow shaft at the target. Shiloh rapped him smartly on the wrist with his own heavy bowstave, as the Redwaller flinched and loosed his arrow. "I said draw to the ear! You aren't getting any power out it like that, and your shaft won't be able to pierce wet paper, let alone a beast encased in armor."

The mouse scowled at the vermin fox giving him orders. "I can't aim with it like that! How're we even supposed to hit the targets if we can't aim?"

Without a word, Shiloh plucked an arrow from the quiver hanging off his hip and drew the bow, until the nock was almost touching the back of his jaw. The string whipped into his wrist and sent the arrow screaming through the air like the feathered death it was. The heavy steel head sunk almost two inches into the oak board with a loud _thunk! _Before the arrow head stopped shaking where it stuck, another one thudded into the target a hair's breadth from the first.

"You don't aim!" Shiloh almost shouted to the assembled archers, who were now staring in wonder at the two arrows he had just planted into the target without any apparent effort. "You don't think! Just draw, loose and know exactly where that arrow is going to end up. Pick a spot on the target, concentrate, and let the bow do the rest." He walked down the field and managed to pull the arrows from the plank with a grunt of exertion.

As he was preparing to continue his speech, the face of one beast in the crowd made him stop. It was the same young mouse he had seen before, the one he had almost killed. He held a short, thin bow and a pawful of spindly arrows. Shiloh beckoned him forward, and the mouse did so hesitantly. "What's your name?"

"Alymir," He said calmly, though Shiloh could see the nervousness in his face.

_I wonder if he knows that I'm the one who..._He stopped himself before the thought finished itself. "What's your job at Redwall, Alymir?" He asked sharply.

"I'm one of the infirmary assistants," He said, with a tone of pride. "Brother Alexander has me helping him."

Shiloh kept up his guise of the big, bad vermin. "So you help the sick and injured, eh? You might want to do that on the day of the battle, young 'un, but I don't! Do you know what I want you to do?"

"No," Alymir was trying to keep himself composed. "What?"

"I want you to kill the scum coming to attack this place!" He said, now addressing the whole group. "I want to see them bleeding, dying, and running back to whatever cesspool they call home! Drop them where they stand, and don't show any mercy. Because I know for a fact that you'll get none from them. Do you know what happens to archers if they're taken alive? Torture, that's what. They'll skin you alive and pluck the eyes from your skulls. The only thing that's keeping you from that fate is this." He held up one of the arrows, and then suddenly tossed it to Alymir. "Shoot."

The mouse faced the target and placed the arrow on his string, astonished by the arrow's weight. "I don't think..." He began before Shiloh cut him off.

"Shoot. And remember what I said. Pick a spot and concentrate. Don't think, don't aim."

Alymir ran his fingers through the arrow's fletching, staring intently at the wooden planks that suddenly seemed miles away. Heart thumping, he took a short breath and drew, bringing the cord back with a mysterious smoothness. To him, there was no grass and trees, no flittering insects or gentle breeze. There was only the bow, the arrow, and the target. Without a second thought, he let the cord slip off his fingers.

The other Redwallers cheered as the arrow embedded itself into the center of the pallet. Shiloh allowed himself a small grin as they celebrated the small feat, though part of him couldn't deny the feeling of disappointment at what he saw in the target. The shaft had struck dead-center, but only gone a short distance into the wood. Armor, especially that worn by fully equipped warriors, would stop such a shot without as much as a dent.

He shook off the feeling and allowed himself to clap along with the others. "That's enough for now," He said after the noise had died down. "Get something to eat; we'll get at it again later this evening."

Lunch was a rushed affair, just a simple salad and hearty bread with a few pieces of cheese, along with some October ale to wash it down. Sitting near a smoldering hearth along with Harsk and Thorben, Shiloh grumbled his complaints at the sad nature of their current predicament.

"So you're sayin' they can't shoot, is what?" His squirrel friend said, taking a short draught from a drink which smelled curiously strong for the alleged cordial it contained.

"Oh, they'll shoot just fine after a few more days," He said, rapping his knuckles on the tabletop. "It's the bows. These abbeybeasts haven't used these things for more than competition and scaring off the occasional drunkard that came wandering down the path. It'll be like trying to kill a wolverine with a splinter with one of those."

Thorben nodded his agreement. "Aye, it's the same with the armor. Looked like it was hammered outta some ol' pots and pans. Stuff wouldn't stop a thwack with a bulrush, let alone a broadsword."

Harsk stared sullenly at the two. "So what yore sayin' is that we can't win?"

Draining the rest of the cup in one short quaff, Thorben winced and barely managed to suppress a cough. "Win? Nah, mate, ain't never goin' to happen. Course, that wasn't the intent anyways."

The ferret was puzzled. "It weren't?"

Shiloh explained for the sputtering squirrel. "We'd not have a snowball's chance in hellgates of actually defeating Macepaw and his army. No, a siege would've been our best bet. Stall them at the walls and don't let a single beast through, that's how you win battles like this 'un. But with the way things are looking..." He spat into the brazier. "We'll not keep them out for long. Not with bows like the ones they've got."

"You seem to be putting a lot of trust into these archers of yours, vermin."

Spinning in his seat, Shiloh came face-to-face with Rothgarr, with at least a score of ragged, tough-looking squirrels standing behind him with looks of scrutinizing coldness on their faces.

He fixed his gaze on Rothgarr. "Nice of you to show up, bushtail. Decided to have a nice stroll through the woodlands while we were preparing the defenses?"

Danger flashed in the squirrel's eyes, but he kept his tone level. "It takes time to find twenty beasts scattered everywhere from here to Sampetra. And believe me, it was worth it. Each one of these fighters is worth ten of what that dunderheaded Macepaw has. We'll gut them on our spears like a roast trout."

One corner of Shiloh's mouth twitched up into a sneer. "Let me know how well that plan goes when we're besieged by..."

His voice suddenly trailed off as one of the Redwallers, an elderly vole, walked past with an armful of firewood for the large hearth at one end of Great Hall. But it wasn't the creature he was interested in. Shiloh got up from his seat without a word and snatched up one of the quartered logs out of the vole's paw, ignoring his protests.

Rothgarr bared his teeth. "What in blue blazes of hellgates are you doing, fox?"

Before the situation could escalate, Father Michael appeared nearby and calmed things down, motioning for Rothgarr to placate himself. The mouse turned an inquisitive eye to Shiloh, who was scrutinizing the wood carefully. "May I ask what you are doing, my son?"

This time, he didn't seem to notice how Michael addressed him. "Is this yew?" Shiloh asked, gesturing to the chunk of wood. The small log's center was hued dark brown, almost red, with a thin ring of sapwood around its edge, colored like honey.

Michael nodded. "Yes, we planted quite a few of them many seasons ago. Unfortunately, our gardener at the time was somewhat...overzealous in his duties. We've been using the extras for some time now. The excess trees were chopped down and left to season until they were ready, and then cut into sections."

Shiloh tossed the firewood back to the vole, who scurried off with a worried expression on his already strained face. "How many do you still have, full-sized trunks, that is?"

"I'm not sure," Michael said, just as puzzled as Rothgarr and anybeast within earshot. "They're being stored in the cellar; it's driest down there and..."

But he said no more as Shiloh dashed off, a surprisingly excited grin on his scruffy face.

"Ready, draw...loose!"

The sharp twang of bowstrings was almost immediately drowned out by the distinctive clatter of arrows striking metal; the vast majority punching through the replicated breastplates arranged one hundred paces away from the archers. They were assembled on the lawn in front of Great Hall, almost sixty beasts in all, each armed with a yew warbow.

Shiloh paced the line continuously, watching as each archer poured ten arrows into the target over the span of twenty or so seconds. Some of the ash-wood shafts were cut shorter than the others, but tipped with almost six inches of hard oak and steel bodkin points to further aid the arrow's killing force and armor penetration. Even as they practiced, a small gathering of beasts sat nearby splitting and shaping the lumber that would be used for their ammunition.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Shiloh roared, watching as each archer loosed their last arrows and unstrung their bows, some still straining with the effort.

_Not the strongest archers in the world, _he thought to himself, _but then again, none of these Redwallers have ever drawn a stave in battle. They'll grow accustomed to it eventually._

He had spent the previous three days splitting, carving, and bending the new weapons. There had been enough of the yew wood in the Redwall cellars to make a bow for every archer, and more than enough spares. Thorben had also helped, and they had instructed some of the abbey-dwellers in the painstaking art of bowmaking. Some of the staves were still covered in tool marks and freshly coated in a mix of beeswax and oil, but they shot just as well as any.

Even Rothgarr volunteered to help the archers, despite his obvious disdain for Shiloh and his mercenary companions. Quite a few of his troupe, Rothgarr included, were skilled in blacksmithing. Using broken cookware, old barrel rings, and other pieces of otherwise useless metal, they had produced a small armory. Short swords, billhooks, spears, javelins, axes, and even two full-sized war hammers were produced in short order. Like the bows, they were far from eye-pleasing and somewhat crudely manufactured. But as Rothgarr said to anybeast who noted such discrepancies, "Battle isn't pretty; your weapons shouldn't be either."

Shiloh had already chosen his armament. Besides the knife which hung at his side at all times, he now wore a falchion: A heavy, short-bladed sword. The weapon had a single cutting edge, the other side blunt and wide on its back. A large wire hilt protected his paw, and the grip was wrapped with hemp twine. It was a simple, devastating weapon that could crush skulls just as easily as it would eviscerate whatever beast was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

The clash of practice swords on armor echoed from across the Abbey grounds, where the Scouts were instructing some of the Redwallers in the most basic elements of paw-to-paw fighting. Despite his annoyance with Rothgarr, Shiloh had to admit that he admired the squirrel's attitude towards battle.

He watched, with a bemused look on his face, as the burly creature knocked over a mouse with a brutal shove, stopping his wooden blade mere inches from his opponent's head. These were not chivalrous tournament rules, or even two knights battling each other on square terms. This was tavern brawling; raw, unrefined skirmishes that left both sides bloody, bruised, and broken. The winner was determined simply by who came out less damaged.

The midday bells tolled out their usual notes, clear and crisp against the occasional crash of weapons. Shiloh whistled sharply to gain the attention of the archers before jerking a paw over his shoulder. "Break for lunch, but get back out here afterwards. I want all of you helping to prepare the defenses, understand?"

He dismissed them after getting a series of nods and affirming gestures. They all ran to get their meals while Shiloh strung his bow, plucking a shaft from the canvas arrow bag hanging on his side. The sound of the point striking metal seemed to occur at the same time as the lash of the bowstring on his wrist. He hauled the cord back a second time and loosed, driving another arrow into the target. Reveling in the pain of the taut string on his fingers and the feeling of power built up in the muscles of his back, Shiloh let fly another arrow. There was no conscious thought there, not even in the placing of the shaft on his stave. It was all instinct, something driven and seared into his very soul.

The last arrow cut through the air and buried itself into a cluster of darts no bigger than Shiloh's paw. He had only just managed to retrieve his last arrow and begin walking back to the shooting line when the low, bleating sound of a horn split the air. It was an alarm, one of the brass instruments given to each of the wall sentries. They were only to be sounded for one reason and one alone: Attack.

Shiloh's footpaws were moving before his brain registered the fact. Ignoring the frantic tolling of the two great Abbey bells and the sudden rush of frenzied, almost panicked activity, he sprinted up the wall steps two at a time to the nearest guard post. The hedgehog standing there seemed not to notice that a fox was at his side, instead pointing directly to the north. "There," he said in a voice betraying a subdued terror.

It didn't take superb vision to see the rapidly growing dust cloud, just beyond the crest of a large hill not more than two leagues to the north of Redwall. Shiloh's stomach contracted into a ball of ice, and a bolt of terror went searing through his heart like a dagger. For almost a full minute, he was frozen to the spot.

"Shiloh!" Thorben's shout forced him out of the trance-like state. The squirrel was standing on the grass below, a concerned look on his face. "What is it, mate?"

He finally managed to force a few words out of his suddenly parched mouth. "Get the Abbot and shut the gates tight! They're here!"

Not even bothering to see if Thorben was moving, Shiloh almost leapt down the steps and sprinted for Great Hall. "Sound the bells!" He roared at the top of his lungs, quickly garnering everybeasts' attention. "Sound the bells, they're here!"


	7. Chapter 7 Fire and arrows

**Hey guys and gals, hope everyone's having a good day. Well, finals week is here, but I got to school about an hour early today and decided I'd get this chapter up before my brain turned into muck. I had considered splitting this chapter into two parts and leaving everyone with a cliffhanger, but in the end I decided otherwise. So this one's a tad bit long, but the moment you've all been waiting for has arrived! The Siege of Redwall, in all its bloody glory. Anyway, hope ya'll enjoy, and as always R&R!**

* * *

><p>A council was quickly assembled and ordered to gather in the abbey gatehouse. About ten beasts in all including Shiloh, Rothgarr, and Eleyna stood awkwardly about while arguments and opinions flew thicker than an arrow storm.<p>

"We can't win against a force that size! Our only option is to leave the abbey and retreat, maybe warn Salamandastron."

"Abandon Redwall? I can't believe I'm even hearing this! We have to stay, we have to _fight_! I won't see this Abbey fall while there's still somebeast left alive to defend it!"

"Oh, wonderful plan! 'tis, until you get everybeast slain by that horde out there. 'Ave ye seen it, there's thousands of the monsters!"

"Hurr burr, what'n if we..."

"...No, that'll never..."

"Dunerheaded rotface!"

"Jellyspine!"

"Coward!"

"Dunce!"

A _bang! _loud enough to shake the whole gatehouse silenced the yelling without protest. Everybeast turned to see Roebak holding a broken chair leg, the rest of the chair lying in splinters around the now-dented table. The otter used the stick like a cane, jabbing it in the air and pointing at specific creatures.

"You bunch of fat-brained ninnies, can't ye see what's happenin' here? At this rate, that army outside our gates won't have t' do a thing. We'll just kill each other off one by one like the idiots you are!"

Father Michael placed a calming paw on his shoulder. "That's enough, friend. Just calm down, I'll get things settled here."

Roebak restrained himself and sat down, still looking for anybeast foolish enough to speak out of turn while the Abbot spoke.

"There is no more time for preparation, friends. Both Shiloh and Rothgarr have informed me that this army will be at our gates by nightfall. Sentries will be posted around the clock, and I expect to see every one of them alert and awake. Are we clear on that point?" The Abbot had forsaken his kind and sensitive words, slipping back into the form of strict military commander.

"Secondly, there will be no fires on the walls at night. Tell all the Redwallers to keep as many of the lights out as possible. I don't want to give these vagabonds a chance to pick off our guards when they silhouette themselves against a lit window. Have somebeast stationed at the bell-ropes at all times, to sound the alarm if they are needed." Michael looked out over the tense gathering. "That is all. Make ready the defenses."

As the crowd began to disperse, Michael motioned for Shiloh and Thorben to step forward. He spoke in hushed tones as they did so. "Thorben, do you know the mountain of Salamandastron?"

The squirrel tried to hide a small wince. "Aye, m'lord, I know it. Not on terribly good terms with that Long Patrol lot, though."

That seemed of little concern to the Abbot. "You are to leave the Abbey at once and make for the mountain fortress. Lord Redstripe will come to our aid, I am sure of it. Take Eleyna with you, she will be able to support your claims. If we can hold Redwall long enough for the Long Patrol to arrive, this fight may swing in our favor."

Thorben rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, the Long Patrol, right. Er...ye know when I said me an' those hares weren't exactly chums, yer honor? Well, I may or may not've...well, I slew one o' their commanders."

For the first time since he had met him, Shiloh saw the Abbot's eyes go dark. "When, and whom?"

"About four seasons back, a hare by th' name of Colonel Hamilton. We got inta a little spat with one o' their border posts."

Michael restrained the tremor in his voice. "It doesn't matter now, just take Eleyna and go. No matter what quarrel you might have with them, Redwall's safety is paramount. Go, send for the Long Patrol."

Shiloh and Thorben hurried out of the gatehouse, the squirrel letting out a sigh of relief when the door had closed behind them. "Did ye see the look on his face, mate? I thought the Abbot might jus' kill me 'imself."

"I don't think so, but he's got a point. Eleyna will be able to vouch for you. Just be careful, Thorben. Those hares don't forget a grudge like that one easily." Shiloh watched his friend nod sincerely. He had seen the fight that erupted between just six of the Salamandastron hares and at least a full score of mercenary fighters. The hares had eventually retreated back to their mountain, while the eight remaining vermin had slunk away to lick their wounds. Shiloh hadn't joined in the fray until he realized the roaring squirrel wielding a broken claymore had been his friend. He was personally responsible for wounding two of the hares, but didn't know if they had died or not.

But at that moment, all he was concerned about was making sure Redwall's defenses held. There would be no mercy shown if Macepaw succeeded in breaching the walls. The deranged weasel saw no difference between a fully-armed knight and cowering babe; if it could stand on two paws, Macepaw was eager to kill it.

A chilling thought ran through Shiloh's head. What if the Long Patrol didn't come? What if they considered it a trap just meant to lure them into a killing field ready-made by an enemy who knew the gallant hares' weakness: The desire to help their friends in a time of need.

They had reached the southern wall gate, where Eleyna was already waiting for their departure. Her father was standing close by, obviously displeased by the whole affair. He glared daggers at Thorben for a few tense moments before turning to Eleyna. "Are you sure you want t' go through with this?"

She nodded curtly, eyes almost set in stone. "Yes, I'm sure. Without Salamandastron, the Abbey won't last more than a few days. It's the right thing to do."

Rothgarr crossed his arms. "Aye, it might be right, but it isn't the smart thing."

"Sometimes we have to make dangerous choices," Eleyna said, motioning for two nearby otters to open the door. "And it's...it's what mother would have wanted."

The seemingly rock-solid squirrel actually flinched, a reply wavering on his lips. But eventually, he sighed deeply and embraced his daughter, holding her close. "Be careful," He said quietly. "Watch out for any patrols circling the Abbey, and keep to the trees as much as you can."

She smiled and tweaked his ear playfully. "I know. You taught me, after all. Those vermin won't be able to even catch our shadows."

Shiloh shook Thorben's paw, clapping him on the shoulder. "Be safe, got it? I don't want you coming back here full of holes."

"Oh, I'll try. Not shore how those longears are gonna take seein' my old face around those parts, but only one way t' find out, eh?"

"Thorben, are you ready?" They both turned to Eleyna, who was buckling on her sword belt and preparing to leave.

"Aye, as I'll ever be." Thorben embraced his friend one last time. "Keep yoreself safe, bushtail. Kill Macepaw for me, will ye? I want t' see his head on a pike when I get back."

Shiloh grinned. "I'll do my best. Now get going, we're wasting time. Good luck!"

With one final wave to their friends, the two squirrels vanished out the door and into Mossflower woods without a sound. The gate was shut and barred, and the small gathering dispersed. Shiloh made his way up the steps leading to the walltops, leaning against one of the battlements.

Macepaw's army was clearly visible in the distance. The setting sun gave just enough light to make out the glint of armor and weapons, while the rising smoke from hundreds of fires turned the normally orange sky into scarlet. He could see beasts moving about in the treeline, no doubt gathering materials for the upcoming battle. They were far too distant for any bowshot, but close enough for his gut to shrink into a leaden ball.

The sound of pawsteps on stone made him look up. Michael stood next to the fox, staring at the enemy camp with a similar expression. "I had hoped I would not see a sight such as this again." He shook his head sadly. "Evidently my prayers went unanswered."

Shiloh rested his arms on the cool sandstone. "Answers come in different forms, Abbot. Sometimes they just aren't the ones we were hoping for."

Even as the sun began to dip below the horizon it became clear that more and more troops were beginning to congregate not only on the northern and eastern edges of the forest, but across the path as well, to Redwall's east. Their campfires were dangerously close to the Abbey, but not close enough to afford a shot with a bow. "We need catapults," Shiloh murmured out loud, though it was mostly to himself. "And cannon."

Michael glanced at him with a perplexed look. "Cannon?" It was obvious that the mouse was confused by the term.

Shiloh kept glaring at the tree line far ahead, as though his evil looks would send the army retreating back to whence it came. "When I lived on the northeast coasts, our tribes would get attacked by pirates; raiding parties, trying to lay paws on whatever was worth stealing. One day, we saw a ship in the distance and got ready to defend the village. But before we even had a chance to gather the militia there was a massive explosion, like thunder. Next thing we knew, two of the houses were smoking wrecks. Those pirates never even had to lift a paw. They just shot at us and left."

Michael folded his paws inside the wide sleeves of his robe. "But what are they?"

"We had a traveler come through the village later that summer, he told us. It's a metal tube, filled with a powder that explodes when ignited. Imagine a spark landing in a tub of the strongest liquor you can imagine, only ten times as powerful. The whole lot is capped with an iron ball that fragments into hundreds of shards on impact." The fox shook his head. "Terrible bloody things, they are. Useful, though. What I wouldn't give to send a few of Macepaw's troops to hellgates with one of those. Sure would put the fear of the devil into them, eh?"

Michael hummed to himself quietly, obviously still intrigued by what Shiloh had described. "When did this occur? The attack on your village, that is?"

A hint of a sneer crossed his face. "Not to disappoint you, father, but this wasn't the kind of place that kept a daily journal of what was sold in the local markets. We had more important things to worry about, like surviving." But the snarky grin faded. "I'd guess...fifteen, sixteen seasons back. I was just a kit then, could hardly lift a sword."

He turned to offer another joke about killing searats while still in diapers, but Abbot Michael was gone. Sighing in resignation, he cast one last look of derision towards the enemy camped to tantalizingly close to the Abbey. Night was truly fallen, leaving a blanket of black velvet where the amber sky had been before. He spat once and shouted loud enough for those in the forest to hear. _"Rot ja kuolla, sikojen!"_

"What's that mean?" Shiloh jumped at the sudden voice, which belonged to Harsk. The ferret stood nearby, clutching a flask that smelled suspiciously of cognac.

"What?" He asked, glancing at the container. "'s just some...well, ner'mind. Wot's that rubbish you was yellin'?"

"It's from the old northern tongue," Shiloh said after he had taken his eyes off the flask. "Literally, it means 'rot and die, you pigs'. Thought it might be appropriate for the situation. Here," He said, motioning with a paw. Harsk gave him the flagon, a smarmy look on his face.

"I thought you didn't drink on sentry," he said with a smirk.

Shiloh slugged back a short draught, grimacing as the liquid burned like molten lead down to his stomach. He coughed a bit, returning the look. "And I thought you were a little young to be doing it anyways. Besides, it's cold out here." That wasn't entirely true. For such a season it was unusually warm, even during night. The chill that Shiloh felt had little to do with the weather.

"Ye think we kin win? Hold 'em off, that is?" Harsk rushed through the question, as though he was afraid to ask it.

Shiloh shook his head dourly. "I don't know, lad. I just don't know. Macepaw's got us outnumbered, we can count on that. If the bastard decides to hold us under siege, we'll be able to stick it out. But if he assaults tomorrow..." He sighed darkly. "It's going to be a bloody awful fight."

The ferret leant against the battlement and rested his head in the crux of both arms. "Coulda chosen a worse place t' die, I s'pose. Jus' hope its quick, is all."

Shiloh glanced over at the ferret, who was staring forlornly at the flickering light of a thousand fires. Oddly enough, he noticed, there was no fear in those eyes. No terror, not even a hint of apprehension. Just a shadow of sorrow and disappointment, as if the young fighter realized that their struggle was almost certainly a vain one.

He let out a breath, clasping a paw over Harsk's shoulder before turning towards the steps. "Keep watch for me, lad. It'll be over soon enough."

_Fire._

It was all Shiloh could think before he was thrown off the bed, as if the frame had been tossed about like a giant's plaything. He had just enough sense, in his terror-gripped mind, to throw both arms over his head as the windowpanes of the dormitory shattered into millions of crystalline shards. The air around him was engulfed in a ear-splitting roar, like the bellows of hell itself had opened themselves upon the land of the living. Even through his clenched eyelids, Shiloh could make out a bright orange glow starting to swallow the darkness. Smoke was already starting to suck the air from his lungs, so Shiloh did the only thing his fevered mind could conjure. He got up and ran.

There was just enough momentum in his awkward stumble to send the dormitory door careening off its hinges. Coughing and hacking up soot, Shiloh staggered down the hallway while using both paws to feel along the wall. Oddly enough, the torches that usually lit the Abbey passages were extinguished. The only light came from the amber illumination growing steadily outside. Through the haze of smoke, he could see Redwallers rushing about, though they appeared only as silhouettes through the smog.

He flinched as the entire building shook under his footpaws, a feeling which was shortly followed by another sound of rushing air and burst of light. Screams and shouts were beginning to cut through the buzzing sound in his ears. Most were indistinguishable, but cries for help and the groans of wounded beasts were clear enough even to the dazed fox.

Suddenly, he found himself at the entrance to Great Hall. The air seemed clearer, and Shiloh was able to shake off some of the sluggishness that had been creeping in at the edges of his mind. It was only when he had recovered enough to look outside that true fear struck him like a hammer blow.

It seemed, at first glance, that the entire Abbey was alight with flames. Fires danced like specters in the night, while sparks and smoke drifted into the sky with ferocious volume. There seemed to be strange bundles lying about on the lawns, blazing fiercely where they stood. It only took Shiloh a moment to realize what they were, and his gut shrunk into a frigid ball when the truth struck him.

His eyes caught movement on the horizon. It seemed like a shooting star zipping across the skies, only it was angled directly at the Abbey and growing rapidly with each passing second. The trail of fire followed the missile's arc, right until it clipped the top of a battlement with a distinctive _whump! _Sparks fell like raindrops onto the grass below.

"Shiloh!" His head snapped towards the direction of the yell. It was Harsk, a petrified expression frozen onto his face, which was blackened by smoke and dust. "Wot's happenin'?"

The fox jumped slightly as another projectile screeched in overhead, narrowly missing the top of Great Hall. "Bastards have a trebuchet," He shouted over the screams of injured beasts and roaring flames. "Get water from the pond! Start putting out these fires!"

They both dashed off in opposite directions, Shiloh towards the bell tower. He passed more than one creature lying motionless on the grass, horribly burnt or crushed by falling debris. Forcing himself not to look at the grotesque sight, Shiloh continued on.

A mouse was standing at the base of the tower, dumbstruck in his horror. All around him, the night sky seemed filled with sparks and smoke and fire. He was only shaken out of the trance-like state when a fox clutching a bow and with a scorched pelt grabbed him by both shoulders.

"Ring the bells!" Shiloh said, almost roaring the command. "Ring them, I said! Alert the Abbey, alert everyone!"

The fox had moved on before getting a response, dashing between piles of burning rubble and trying to keep as low as he could to keep away from the acrid, lung-searing smoke. Through the constant haze, it was almost impossible to navigate even the simplest of paths through the Abbey lawn. Redwallers and some of Rothgarr's squirrels were rushing frantically about, throwing pale after pale of water onto the growing flames. The red sandstone walls of the Abbey glowed like the gates of hell in the blistering firelight.

"Shiloh!" He turned to see Rothgarr crouched next to the gatehouse, along with a few of his squirrels. "We're going out to stop those missiles, keep things under control!"

Shiloh was ready to launch into a tirade against the apparently foolish mission, but as his military mind began to take over, the plan made sense. It would be impossible for the Abbey to hold out under this onslaught until dawn, when they had a chance of rallying against the weapons threatening their safety at the moment. And even then, Macepaw would be expecting a retaliatory strike at first light, and would have his army prepared for such a sortie. But to attack so suddenly, in the middle of the night, it might just give them the scarcest of advantages.

He nodded shortly. "Be quick about it, and be careful! We can't afford to lose any more than we have."

Rothgarr gave him the curtest of nods before disappearing in the direction of one of the wall gates. The squirrels were like shadows on the wind, experts in stealth and woodcraft. If there were any creatures alive better suited for the job, they certainly weren't showing themselves.

Flinching as another projectile soared overhead to thump into the side of the bell tower, Shiloh set off towards Cavern Hole, where many of the young, old, and infirm Redwallers were being led into. The air inside the chamber was hot dry, and the cries of fear were louder even than the roaring flames outside, but it was shelter. So long as the main building didn't catch alight, this was most likely the safest place in all of Redwall right now.

He grabbed a vole by the sleeve of his habit. "Where's Michael?"

The young creature could only point towards the end of the hall with a shaking paw, too dumb-founded to speak. Shiloh waded through the crowd of terrified beasts, shouting over the screams and moans of fear. "Michael! Michael! Father Abbot!"

Michael stepped out of the crowd, his expression surprisingly calm and collected. "What is it?"

"Macepaw has trebuchets, at least six by my best guess. Rothgarr and some of his squirrels went out to deal with them, maybe buy us some time. What's the situation down here?"

The mouse helped usher a mother and her frightened child towards the back of Cavern Hole. "We're bringing down anybeast who can't help fight the fires, they'll be safer here. Did you see Roebak up there?"

He gestured with a paw after Shiloh shook his head. "Go back and tell him to send the maids and young ones down. If he's fighting the fires, take over and tell him to meet me. Understand?"

"Yes," He said, letting a small crowd of Redwallers pass. "I understand. Good luck, Michael."

Shiloh finally managed to make his way out of the building, pushing and shoving past the tide of creatures seeking shelter. Outside, the situation hadn't changed much for the better. In fact, it looked worse if that was at all possible. The smoke was choking now, no matter how low he ducked in an attempt to find fresh oxygen. The Abbey beasts' attempts to fight the fires had created even more haze as bucket after bucket was thrown onto the flames to create a monstrous plume of smoke and steam.

He started yelling out into the haze. "Roebak, Skipper Roebak!"

"What the bloody 'ellgates do ye want, vermin?" The otter's gruff voice sliced through the din of burning timber and screams. He was standing near the pond, desperately filling up large pails and giving them to the next beast in line. The message on his face was clear enough: _There's not enough water in the whole pond to fight a blaze like this. _Shiloh pushed the thought to the back of his head and pushed on.

"Abbot Michael wants you to gather up as many Redwallers as you can and send them down into Cavern Hole, if they're not working at the fire," He said, having to lean close to the otter and almost shout over the noise. "He said to meet him with the others, I'll take over here!"

Without another word, Roebak tossed the empty pail into Shiloh's paws and sprinted for the Abbey building. Shiloh quickly waded ankle-deep into the water and filled the pail up to its brim.

It became monotonous and boring, and at the same time terribly fearful. All he could do was stand there and listen as the world seemed to be coming to an end. The night sky above was tinged scarlet by the glowing fires and eerie red light, cast off from the Abbey's walls. The whoosh and following explosions caused by the incoming fireballs was enough to make him twitch involuntarily with each impact. All he could do was shut his eyes, keep baling water, and pray for it all to end soon.

And amazingly, as dawn's first light began to cut amber-yellow rays through the thick haze, the incessant hail of fire stopped as quickly as it had began so many hours before. Suddenly, there were no more trails of smoke coursing through the air, no more of the awful screeching noise that accompanied each meteor. All that remained was the crackle of dying flames and the moans of the wounded and dying. Shiloh fell onto his haunches, sucking in breath after breath of stinging, pungent air.

"Shiloh!" Abbot Michael's voice cut through the fog of confusion starting to creep into the edges of his mind. The mouse was covered from head to foot in black, sooty ash, and there was more than one obvious burn mark on his tattered habit. "What's going on?"

"Rothgarr's sortie must have worked," Shiloh said, forcing himself to stand and address the Abbot properly. "The trebuchets are out of commission, for now that is."

"Err, not exactly."

He spun around to face a blood-spattered Rothgarr, who had seemed to have sprung up out of the ground for all the noise he made. The squirrel leant on his sword, still breathing heavily. "We couldn't get to the bastards," He spat, "Ran into one of their patrols guardin' the camp. Kept us busy all night, tryin' to find a way around 'em."

"So then why did they stop shooting?"

"Ran outta tar. Turd-sucking frogs were coating bales of hay in the stuff, kept it burnin' brighter an' longer. I saw a few of 'em tryin' to scrape what was left outta the barrel, so I'm guessin' their supplies was low."

Shiloh's heart sank. "So the trebuchets...they still work?"

Rothgarr nodded tiredly. "'fraid so."

He fumed for a few moments, desperately thinking of any new ways to destroy the weapons, but eventually sighed and nodded shortly. "Go get some rest while you can, I've got a bad feeling about today."

After Rothgarr dismissed himself, Michael turned to the fox. "How could today be any worse than what we've already suffered?"

Shiloh's eyes were dark, only partially from soot, as he started walking to the battlements. "Macepaw isn't going to wait around for a fresh supply of oil; he's going to attack as soon as possible to try and catch us off guard. Get every able-bodied fighter up to the walls, father. I don't want to get caught with my trousers down while Macepaw scales the walls."

While Abbot Michael turned away to gather as many of the Redwallers as he could, Shiloh strung the bow that had been hanging across his back since that morning. With the powerful yew bent into its signature arc, he dashed towards the wall stairs and up onto the battlements.

Through the thick smoke and early morning fog, he could make out the distant movement of an army assembling for battle. Orders were being shouted, troops arranged into their appropriate positions, and flamboyant pennants hoisted on long poles. Seven trebuchets, now visible in the pale yellow light, had been backed up against the tree line and now sat empty and unbraced, save for one solitary weapon in the very center of their line.

Shiloh narrowed his eyes at the contraption. From this distance, it was difficult to tell what Macepaw's fighters were doing. They were loading the weapon, that much was obvious, but with what he wasn't certain. Instead of rolling heavy stones or oiled bundles of straw into the loading tray, the vermin were pouring something out of buckets into the wicker trough.

"Could be there filth." Harsk appeared nearby, leaning nonchalantly against his bowstave. "Want'a demoralize us, make it that much harder t' fight."

Shiloh swore under his breath as he heard the sudden _whump _of the trebuchet's counterweight striking the earth. "We're about to find out. Cover!" He shouted the last word, ducking next to the sandstone wall as whatever-it-was came whistling through the air. Suddenly, he felt something strike his back; small and weightless, like a soft hail. It was only when one of the projectiles landed at his paws did Shiloh grimace with disgust.

It was a finger: Hundreds of them were still falling as the fighters arrayed on the wall groaned and retched at the grotesque sight. Shiloh was about to kick the offending digit over the wall's edge when he noticed something. Ignoring the queasy feeling in his gut, he picked it up and stared at the tips; they were calloused, in the same way his own bow-fingers were from drawing the hemp cord so many thousands of times.

Those fingers had come from archers.

He swore out loud this time, dropping the finger as if it were on fire. "Bastard," he spat, "God damn the sludge-sucking, murdering, spineless bastard."

Harsk went pale and tried to repress a gagging noise. "Wot...wot'd he..."

"He killed them," Shiloh hissed. "Macepaw killed our archers, to make an example." He leant over the wall and spat derisively. "I'm going to gut the spavined curr."

Everybeast flinched as the deep thrum of drumbeats suddenly echoed across the fields. It was a slow, deliberate rhythm, so loud that it seemed as if the instruments were inside the abbey itself. Soon, another sound joined the cacophony. It was the crashing of swords and spears on shields accompanied by the deep, guttural shout of innumerable warcries. The ground seemed to shake and tremble under the tremendous clamor, and more than one Redwaller shifted nervously in their spots. Shiloh dared risk a glance over the walls. Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

The span of the horizon was clouded with the smoke of hundreds of fires. Underneath the bleary haze stood even more soldiers, each growling and roaring their bloodlust at the Abbey before them. Armor and weapons glinted in the ruddy light as the sound of drumbeats coursed through the ground. Weasels, rats, ferrets, foxes, martens, raccoons, it seemed as though every vermin soldier from the Northlands to Southsward was bearing down on them. Even from here, Shiloh could see the desire to kill in the thousands of dark eyes staring back at him.

Harsk looked up at Shiloh. "How many?"

Shiloh glanced between the mass of soldiers and his friend before replying. "Two hundred."

Rothgarr pulled him down by the ear and hissed. "What're you sayin'? There's at least five times as many of the bastards."

The fox shrugged. "The lad can't count, what difference does it make?"

Grumbling under his breath, Rothgarr went back to securing the steel helmet over his head.

The bone-chilling call of a war horn sounded deep across the short distance between the woods and the Abbey. Shiloh glanced over the wall and spotted the instrument's owner, but the range was far too long to plant an iron-tipped arrow into his throat. Around him, the vermin soldiers continued to beat out a steady rhythm of clashing metal, the sound growing to a dissonance that cut straight into their gullets. Shiloh, however, forced the eerie sound to the back of his mind and began to search for a set of evil, merciless eyes among the crowd. If Macepaw was there, it went without saying that the fox was looking for any chance to spit the weasel on a shaft like a fish on a stake. But despite his best efforts, there were simply too many beasts to pick out any sort of detail. He settled back down behind the wall, plucking an arrow from the linen bag at his side. "Get ready, lads!" He shouted above the noise, trying to keep the gut-wrenching fear out of his voice. "Bastards want a fight, so we're going to give it to 'em. Prepare to draw!"

Scratt, though small in stature and suffering from a crippled forepaw, considered himself a crafty weasel. As one of Macepaw's sergeants-at-arms, he had known from the start that he would be placed in the thick of the fighting when it came time to breach the fortress walls. Already, he was staring up at those towering red sandstone battlements, his gut starting to turn to ice.

But being as clever as he considered himself, Scratt had devised a plan. He had paw-picked a score of massive, hulking ferrets and rats to stand as his squad. Most had the intelligence of a well-trained fish and an atrocious vocabulary, but with arms the size of a full-grown oak, none of that mattered to the scheming weasel. With these veritable walls of flesh and muscle ahead of him, he could sit back and let them do the dirty work until it came time to take over and assert his leadership, and therefore claim the prizes of victory.

Now he was following the rest of the army in striking weapon against shield. In truth, there were hundreds of places Scratt would have rather been at that particular moment, but the insurance of twenty monstrous beasts covering him, it was easier to forget the true circumstances of their assembly.

And then the signal arrived. Three short, ringing blasts from the massive horns placed behind the ranks. With a cry like demons being released from the chains of hell to wreak havoc on the living creatures of the earth, the army moved.

Scratt struggled to keep up with the tidal wave of fur and metal. Holding his blade high above his head and screeching like a banshee, he charged along with a ring of iron-clad monsters arrayed about him. Even as his paws dug into the earth, heaving him forward, he could already see the riches awaiting him inside the castle's walls. Gold and silver to please a thousand kings, Macepaw had said, and it would all be theirs. Exquisite food, slaves to do their every bidding, and the power to rule these lands was all theirs, so long as they could get past the walls.

It was a combination of the thunderous roar the army made, along with the mental fantasy running through his mind, that deafened Scratt's ears to the strange, quiet sound that suddenly filled the air. It was a sharp twanging sound, like hundreds of deep harp strings being plucked at once, followed shortly thereafter by the strange sound of air being cloven into millions of pieces. But even their roars were drowned out as the arrows struck.

The survivors of the first volley would have equated it to thousands of blacksmiths' hammers striking armor, the pattering and banging of metal on metal. But then, like a ghostly choir, the screams and cries of the wounded and dying filled the air. Beasts tumbled like wheat under the scythe, some falling to their knees and skidding to a halt, while others simply went as limp as a cloth doll and dropped to the earth with a wet thud. A red mist sprang up above the heads of the army, coating the ground with the slain.

Scratt suddenly found himself alone. The only beasts left were writhing on the ground about him, clutching arrow shafts impaled through their arms and legs and chest, others already limp and silent as their blood drained into the grass. He slowed to a stop, mouth agape and limbs trembling like a sapling in a windstorm. Such was his horror that he hardly seemed to notice when an ash arrow, tipped with a murderous bodkin, punched through the thin armor over his torso and drove deep into his heart. Scratt died alone, eyes fixed on the sky with the same expression of terror that had led to his demise.

"Keep it up! Keep it up!"

Shiloh had to yell in order to be heard above the dissonance of battle. The thrum of bowstrings striking bracers may have been distracting, and the sound of arrows striking metal armor was audible from their positions on the walls, but it was the horrendous screaming coming from the dying soldiers almost two hundred paces out that jabbed into his skull like a dull knife. Even from such a distance, he could hear beasts pleading for mercy, crying for their mothers, or just keening with an unearthly dirge that seemed to rent the air in two.

Plucking another heavy-tipped arrow from the bag, Shiloh laid it across the bow's handle and nocked it onto the string without looking, searching for threats while drawing the feathers to his ear. He had already picked a single target by the time he let the string leap off his calloused fingers. It was another fox; adorned with a bright red sash around his middle and clutching two sabers. The shaft leapt from the bow without thought on Shiloh's part; even without noticing he had twitched his paw just slightly to adjust for the wind and distance. He didn't even need to look to know that it had struck true. By the time the vermin fell, thrown to the ground as if a massive fist had caught him mid-stride, Shiloh was already searching for another victim.

All the while, he was looking for a gleaming set of studded armor and a colossal mace raised into the air. So far, though, all he could see was wave after wave of advancing soldiers, each screaming their derision at the defenders. He drew again, letting the cord slip off his fingers and send the arrow spinning into the air, with the soft hiss of air over feathers. Shortly thereafter, the shaft buried itself into the small space between a rat's chest armor and chain hood. The vermin coughed and sputtered, blood pouring out from between his rotting teeth. He slumped to the ground, twitching and gargling as his throat filled with blood.

One of Rothgarr's squirrels, only a few paces to Shiloh's right, suddenly jerked and fell without a sound, a crossbow bolt sticking out from between his eyes. More of the stubby arrows began soaring over the battlements and clacking on the sandstone walls as the crossbow troops finally came into range. Shiloh cursed as one of the shafts hissed past his ear, just a paw's breadth from his head.

A field mouse screeched suddenly, dropping his bow and clutching at the bolt protruding from his gut. He sobbed pitifully, rolling and bleeding on the floor as two healers tried desperately to move him. But by the time they managed to peel his blood-stained paws away from the wound, he was dead. Face frozen in agony, he was carried off the wall top and placed on the abbey lawn where a growing number of corpses was gathering.

"Shift fire! Rear guard, rear guard! Two hundred paces!" Shiloh's orders, shouted above the clangor of battle, managed to reach the ears of the assembled archers. Almost immediately, nearly two hundred arrows were nocked, raised, and loosed towards the rear of the enemy line, where lines of crossbow-armed soldiers were slowly cranking back cords and firing with an unnerving speed.

But they were no match for the powerful yew bows. Vermin twitched and screamed and fell as the needle-tipped arrows fell on them like a hellish rain. A rat keened as his footpaw was pinned to the ground, then stopped with a brutal swiftness when two more arrows drove through the thin, rusted chainmail vest he wore. Once more, the deep _thunk _of arrows biting deep into flesh and bone rose above the army. The ground was littered with corpses and wounded, one sometimes stacked upon the other. Beasts died quickly, shafts embedded in their skulls or hearts, while others floundered and shrieked, clutching at agonizing wounds in their bellies or choked to death as their lungs filled with blood.

But the tide was not turning. Hundreds of vermin still moved steadily towards Redwall's gates, crouched behind shields or simply pushing through the maelstrom of steel-shod lightning. One massive ferret, heads taller than his comrades and twice as broad, seemed to ignore the three arrows jutting from his abdomen and charged forward, spewing spittle and blood from between his jagged teeth.

Shiloh could sense the fear growing inside him, a ball of molten lead twisting and expanding in his stomach. He plucked an arrow from the bag at his side and nocked without looking, sending the shaft into the face of a screaming fox not a hundred paces from the walls. The beast collapsed and was subsequently trampled by the footpaws of the advancing horde.

He had just drawn to release another arrow when he spotted the ladders. They were being carried over the heads of the vermin, shields placed like scales over its top to protect the beasts beneath it. Shiloh swore, loosed his arrow and shouted above the noise. "Ladders, ladders! Get ready!"

Fear was etched like fissures in stone on the faces of the Redwallers. Some scrambled out of the way as two heavy iron pots, filled with steaming oil, were placed on trusses just behind the battlements and braziers lit underneath to keep the liquid scalding hot. He tried not to think about what would happen when those huge containers will spilled onto the heads of the onrushing attackers; the reek of burning fur and flesh, the piteous screeching of the victims as they were drenched with the hellish stuff.

And suddenly, they were there. The ladders were pushed forward, lower end sunk into the soft ground just below the abbey walls, while the tops were heaved forward and landed with a huge crash against the sandstone. Huge lead weights, hanging from the rungs of the ladders, made it impossible to push them off. And even if they had managed to send one toppling back, the crossbows would have picked them off mercilessly. Shiloh loosed one last arrow, sinking the head deep into the thigh of an approaching rat, before cupping both paws around his mouth and screaming as loudly as his scorched, stinging lungs would allow. "Now! Do it now!"

It was nothing he hadn't witnessed before, but Shiloh still cringed and had to fight back a retch as the scalding oil was dumped onto the heads of the beasts climbing the ladders. Fur was scorched away, lungs were filled with the wretched smoke, and flesh bubbled and fell away from bones like wet eels. Shiloh had to stop himself from putting arrow to string and ending their suffering. _Save them for the real threats, _he told himself as the ladders were suddenly emptied of beasts.

But the horrific tactic had only slowed the attackers. Aaws the liquid fire cooled, turning to a thick sludge on the ladder rungs, paws wrapped in cloth were already reaching up towards the walls. Shiloh loosed one final arrow, dropped his bow onto the soft grass of the Abbey garden below, and grasped the hilt of the falchion at his side. "Drop bows! Swords, draw your swords!"

The arrow fire stopped almost immediately after. Macepaw's forces, suddenly relieved from the hail of arrows, roared their defiance and rushed onward, determined to annihilate the impudent creatures that had caused them so much pain.

A scrawny, crooked-snouted ferret rushed up a ladder, wielding a short hammer in one paw and grasping at the slick rungs with the other. Tongue hanging out between his broken teeth and screaming his bloodlust into the mid-morning air, he clamored over the last step in the ladder and brought his weapon to bear. Too late, he spotted a fox swinging a short, broad-bladed sword at his throat. The keen edge ripped open the unprotected flesh there, followed by a spraying torrent of blood from the gaping wound. Such was the ferret's shock at the deadly blow that he hardly noticed when the weapon came back and down, cleaving him from neck to ribs in a single stroke.

Shiloh kicked the dying ferret off the walltop, turning just in time to block a lunge at his mid-section. He parried once more, punched the beast in the snout with a sickening crunch of breaking bone, and then plunged his own blade into the soldier's mid-section. Ripping the weapon free before the flesh could latch onto the steel, he batted away another foe and charged, screaming his war cry. "_Haake Paale!"_

It was carnage on the battlements. Brutal paw-to-paw combat, with nary a flashy duelist blow to be found amongst the stabbing, cutting, skull-crunching madness. It was the fighting seen in taverns and wild brawls, not the calm and smooth sword fighting celebrated in song and verse. Beasts drew their long, elegant blades only to be cornered by pole-arms and then hacked to pieces by axes or hammers. Blood flowed over the sandstone bricks like water in a downpour. The sounds of smashing metal and crunching limbs was drowned out by the screams of the wounded and dying.

Shiloh cut at an advancing rat with a swift blow, laying open its leg like a filleted fish. Before the rat could draw breath to unleash a wail, his leather helm and skull underneath was split down its center. The fox took a shuddering breath, finding himself suddenly in the midst of a strange calmness. It was one of the paradoxes of this sort of combat; beasts would hack and slash at each other like demons for what seemed like hours, and then stop almost simultaneously to catch their breath, lick their wounds, and ready themselves for another bout.

He spotted Rothgarr and a few of his squirrels on the opposite end of the wall, who had formed a small barrier between the battlements and stairs leading down to the Abbey lawn. They stabbed and cut at the feet of approaching vermin, only four or so beasts holding back at least fifteen enemies. Harsk was wielding a pole-axe he had undoubtedly taken from a fallen soldier, and was lunging at visors or cleaving in throats with an odd calmness.

But the Redwallers had not gone without casualties. The first wave of attackers had taken some of the less experienced Abbey-dwellers by surprise, and they were hacked down before even getting the chance to draw their weapons. An otter, armored only by a cheap metal helmet, wailed and sobbed as he clutched at a gaping stomach wound, trying with an increasing feebleness to staunch the ever-slowing flow of blood. A mouse choked as his throat was cut open, his tan fur stained scarlet as he stumbled backwards and fell off the wall and into the sea of vermin below.

Shiloh beat down a weasel, using his heavy blade as a club to stun the vermin, and then finished him with a short stab just under the unprotected ribs. As he straightened, Rothgarr's strained, almost panicked shout reached his ears. "Shiloh! There's nowt for it, we have to pull back!" The squirrel swept at his adversary, sending him down with a half-severed neck. "We need to get back into the Abbey!"

"Not yet!" Shiloh shouted above the clangor, "We can still hold! Just a few more minutes!"

But even he realized that they didn't have a few minutes. More ladders were being planted and rested on the walls, and the flow of enemy soldiers was getting stronger and stronger. And with every defender engaged with the vermin already at their throats, it was impossible for them to face the new threat. Hacking at a pair of unarmored legs and finishing the beast with an overpaw chop, Shiloh took a precious moment to scan the Abbey lawn below. He felt a wave of relief fall over him; the lawns and buildings were still clear, all the vermin were still occupied with the outer walls. Cutting down two more vermin, he whistled sharply and waved a paw over his head. "Back to Great Hall! Cover your retreats!"

He had been fearing a mass, unorganized stampede back to the Abbey, leaving the defenders' backs exposed. But the Redwallers surprised him yet again. They slowly backed off the walls and across the short grass field below, never once turning away from the threat at their front. The vermin had seized the walls, but now the Abbey-dwellers were in a far more effective defensive posture. They had a solid building behind them, weapons in their paws and an enemy at their front.

Shiloh plucked his bow off the ground and jogged ten paces, turned, and drew, looking for any target that presented itself. But what made his eyes snap into focus like those of a hawk was the flag waving above the newly-captured battlements: A white paw, clutching a hammer, on a black and blue-striped field.

Macepaw's flag.

But the weasel himself wasn't there. Shiloh swore under his breath, and consoled himself of the bad luck by shooting the standard-bearer in the throat with a rusty broadhead. He felt a surge of dark joy as the pennant fell with a sudden limpness.

"Fox!"

He spun around to see Roebak, armed with a blood and gore-stained battleaxe, at the doors of Great Hall and gesturing wildly with a paw. "Move your stupid arse, vermin! We ain't waitin' all day!"

Sprinting like a mad-beast, Shiloh tried to ignore the sudden twang of crossbow strings and the gut-wrenching sound of bolts striking the grass just behind his paws. As he ducked behind the massive oaken doors of Great Hall, at least half a dozen of the projectiles struck the beams, punching almost cleanly through.

Inside, it was chaos. The screaming of the wounded, shouted orders, and wailing of terrified infants rose into a dreadful clamor. The stained glass windowpanes high above their heads had already been shattered by the previous trebuchet assault, and dozens after dozens of bolts were being shot through the gaps. Seconds after a heavy wooden bar was placed across the doors, the sounds of axes and hammers biting into the wood rang throughout the hall.

"They'll never get through," He told Roebak, who stood panting nearby. "They're too thick."

The otter looked up at him. "The doors, or the beasts behind it?"

They glanced at each other, and for the first time each cracked a genuine smile. "I'll leave that decision up to you," he said, taking a swig from the canteen at his belt and savoring the clean, fresh water. "But we've got bigger things to worry about. How many did we lose?"

The otter spat derisively. "Twenty-two dead, forty eight wounded, and six missing."

Shiloh almost winced. That cut their entire force by a good third, if not more. "We'll just have to hold Great Hall until..." He couldn't finish the sentence. Nobeast wanted to state the obvious.

Rothgarr found the pair, a bandage wrapped around his arm and a slight hitch in his step, probably from the sword cut on the top of his footpaw. "I lost three fighters dead, another six wounded, and we've got less than a hundred arrows left 'twixt the lot of us."

Shiloh's heart sank lower each time the _thunk _of the axe crunching into the timbers of the gates resounded. He looked at the crowd of Redwallers, some clutching babes or their loved ones, while others wept in fear or stared blankly with the look of desperation that only a doomed creature could have. They were cornered, bloody and beaten, and they all knew it. There was only one option left. "Somebeast find me a white rag, anything'll do."

Eyes narrowing, Roebak stared at Shiloh. "You ain't thinkin' of givin' up, are ye? I knew it, all you vermin cads are jus' cowards at 'eart."

"This isn't cowardice!" he roared, catching the otter off-guard. "This is common bloody sense! Do you think we'd last ten seconds when that door comes down? We'd be lucky to get five. No, this is saving our skins, if it's at all possible. For all I know, Macepaw'll just kill me the second I walk out that door with a flag in my paw, and then rush in to slaughter the rest of you, but I have to try."

"Which is why I should be the one to offer our surrender."

Shiloh turned to see Abbot Michael, still scorched and singed from the firefighting efforts earlier, with both paws and habit speckled with blood. None of it his, Shiloh gathered.

"I don't think so, father." He said, "You lot can get along if I get my stupid head lopped off, but these beasts won't last a moment longer if you're killed. Even if they do get in, if you're between Macepaw and your flock, maybe that will stop them long enough to talk terms."

"And you can guarantee this?" Michael smiled wryly at Shiloh's expression. "No, I thought not. You're right, though. If they see you coming, it won't be three seconds before you're a pincushion for crossbow bolts. But an Abbot might give them pause, just enough pause to negotiate a surrender."

Shiloh tried to think of something against the mouse's words, but nothing came. Roebak nodded grimly. "As much as I don't like it, father, I think yore right. Mayhap I should come along, just in case..."

"No," Michael said, laying a paw on the otter's shoulder. "I need you here, just in case the worst happens. Shiloh, I would be honored if you would cover me from the second story, though it may not do any good. I would still feel better knowing that I have a set of friendly eyes watching."

He nodded. "It'd be my pleasure, father."

**A/N: The first bit of jibber-jabber Shiloh yells is Finnish. It boils down to "Rot and die, you pigs!" The second one, _Haake Paale, _is an old Finn/Norsk war cry, which translated comes out to "Hack them down", though the literal transcription just means "Kill!" Little tidbits for those interested in what Shiloh was ranting about. w**


	8. Chapter 8 The End of all Things

**_Well here it is, the last chapter of drifters! Sorry I forgot to tell you guys that it was ending here, but I promise you that this is far from the last time you'll here from Shiloh. That crafty fox wouldn't leave me alone, so to stop the arrows that would sometimes come out of the woods near my house and land about five steps from wherever I was standing, I promised him that this wouldn't be the end of his story._**

**_Also, I feel it's very important to talk about something, even for those of my readers who aren't in the United States: Right now, our country is going through a time of powerful grief and heartbreak. Thirty families will never be the same, twenty of them horrifically so. I'm not going to get into the politics of it, because right now that's not my concern. All that matters is that we show these people our support. Send them as many prayers as you can, because they and the nation desperately need them right now. Thank you._**

* * *

><p><em>This is bloody insane, <em>Shiloh thought to himself. _Absolutely goddamned bloody insane._

As the late afternoon sun beat down on the blood-stained Abbey lawn, Shiloh watched a somber-faced Abbot Michael walk out the front doors of Great Hall, escorted by three vermin guards, each with a flamboyant red sash wrapped about their waists. The door was immediately shut and barred behind him, but Michael remained calm and followed the poking and prodding of the soldiers as they guided him to the center of the Abbey lawn, directly in front of the main gate.

Shiloh was nestled into the dark corner of an upstairs infirmary room, where the lengthening shadows and heaps of debris helped conceal his position. He waited, bow half-drawn, ready for anything that might occur. From where he sat, Shiloh could see the battlements lined with crossbows, while the grounds below were littered with piled corpses and waiting vermin soldiers, triumphant grins plastered on their blood-streaked faces.

Ignoring their haughty attitude and shouted jeers at the Abbot, he searched carefully for the hulking figure and spiked armor of Macepaw. So far, the weasel was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the Abbot was shoved into a spot just a few paces in front of the main gate and held in place with a spear to his throat.

The shadows of early evening grew as the sun began to set, casting a pale orange light though the smoke-tinged air. The only sounds was the crackling of fires, and the occasional moaning from the wounded in Great Hall below. But Shiloh blocked it out of his mind, focusing on the Abbot and any hasty movements the vermin around him might make.

A trumpet, shrill and stark in the previous quiet, pierced the air. The instrument's owner was obviously not a skilled player, but nonetheless continued his screeching tune. After a few moments of the spine-tingling melody, the trumpet fell quiet and was replaced by a shouting voice. Still trying to recover his hearing, Shiloh only caught the last few words of the short speech. "...victorious in battle, honorable in service, and loyal to his subjects, General Macepaw the Great!"

Shiloh sucked in a breath as the front gates were opened, leaving a massive silhouette there to cast a intimidating shadow. It was all the same; the studded armor, the heavy, sidling gait, the half-toothed sneer and gargantuan weapon hanging from his belt.

Macepaw.

It was all the fox could do not to draw his bow and send the fine-tipped arrow into the weasel's broad chest. The distance was only a few more than a hundred paces; an easy shot for him. He knew that he could plant the shaft just above the breast-plate, where the throat was only covered by a thin layer of mail and padded cloth. It would be a killing shot, leaving him to bleed out in a matter of seconds.

But it could only have ended one way: Abbot Michael cut down where he stood, and an onrush of vermin into Great Hall that couldn't be stopped by anybeast alive. So instead, Shiloh kept to the shadows and waited, staring as Abbot Michael approached and handed Macepaw a white scarf as a token of parley. The weasel ripped the cloth from the tiny creature's paws, looked at it quizzically, and used the soft fabric to blow his nose. Instantly, his garrison roared with laughter, cackling and keening as Macepaw tossed the garment to the ground and began to speak.

Even with the weasel's booming voice, it was difficult for Shiloh to understand the entire tirade.

"...resisted your natural leader, your...not accept treason from my subjects...cut you down like the worms you are...only punishment for these actions is death!"

Shiloh watched Michael with an increasing astonishment. The mouse didn't cower and shrivel as so many did when confronted by the weasel, but instead spoke calmly and like a true general. Unfortunately, this also meant that Shiloh couldn't hear what was being said. So he settled in, kept watching, and prayed fervently that there would be no more bloodshed that day.

Things ended nearly an hour later, with Michael being marched off by the same guards as before and Macepaw walking into the gatehouse, shutting the door behind him with a massive bang. The doors of Great Hall opened only far enough to allow the Abbot back inside, and were then bolted tightly shut.

Shiloh left his post in time to catch the Abbot ascending the stairs with Roebak, Rothgarr, and a number of the senior Redwallers. "Come with us, we have things to discuss." Michael's face was strained and tired, like a beast who had just run a great distance.

"I can imagine," he said lightly, but immediately noticed the sharp look in Roebak's eyes and decided sarcastic quips weren't the best tactic at the moment.

They gathered in the library's study, where a circular table had been set out with enough chairs to hold them all. They sat and waited for Michael to speak, who took a moment to collect his thoughts before looking up and addressing them. "Macepaw has issued an ultimatum. We are to be given two days' deliberation before choosing one of two options. The first is that we continue to resist and are killed to the beast, not sparing a single maid or child." He paused, as if just saying the words were a physical labor.

"And the second option?" Shiloh asked, gut shrinking to a ball of ice.

"The second is that we submit to Emperor Macepaw's will, as he calls himself, and becomes servants and slaves to his just will."

Shiloh snorted. "That's it? That's all he could think up? By the seasons, I knew he was a thick-brained son of a whore, but I never knew he was this unimaginative."

"That's not all. He also said that every beast that had actively resisted him in the past days would be summarily put to death. Also, he..." Michael tried to keep his voice level. "He demanded that Roebak, Rothgarr, me, and you, Shiloh, would be taken prisoner and held to account for our crimes against our rightful leader."

Shiloh's blood ran ice-cold. "I have the feeling that doesn't entail just throwing us in a dungeon for a few years, eh?" He said quietly.

The abbot shook his head. "He said he would make us all suffer for ages, until we begged for death to come. He said we would regret the day had shined upon our mothers, and our mouthers' mothers, and..." Michael stopped, unable to continue. The room went eerily quiet, until Rothgarr spoke up in a strangely small voice. "There's still Thorben and Eleyna, maybe they reached the mountain fortress."

Roebak shook his head sadly. "'s impossible. It's at least a five-day journey, and they only left two days ago. No, we're on our own."

Not a single beast spoke. As day fell to night outside, leaving their only source of light to a few meager candles in the table's center, Shiloh looked around at the faces surrounding him. There was fear there, to be certain, but there was more hidden behind that mask. Determination, a resolution not to be taken by evil. Even the most peaceable of Redwall's order set their eyes in granite and sat up straighter, not willing to give into the growing terror inside their hearts. These were beasts preparing to die.

He had seen it before, more times than he cared to remember. Criminals, betrayers, deserters, sentenced to die. Most pleaded and begged for mercy, crying like babes until the moment the axe severed their heads. But sometimes, very rarely, one stood out from the rest. They would walk under their own power to the executioner, look their killer in the eyes, and seemed to speak without opening their mouths. _"I may die today, but I will not go into death begging for one more moment of life, for I have known what it is to live. Send me my way, but know that you will gain no satisfaction from my killing." _It was the final act of bravery a beast could perform unto himself, knowing that their time was at an end, that there would be no tomorrow for them, but knowing that their life had truly stood for something.

Shiloh got up slowly while drawing his blade, placed the tip on the wooden table, and leaning casually against it. "I'll die a thousand deaths before I let that bastard take me alive," he said, tapping the metal cross-piece with a claw. "So let's die well, lads. Let's die very, very well."

Great Hall was sealed off, leaving the rest of the Abbey open to Macepaw. Shiloh had no doubt that the library, gardens, and other non-essential elements had been destroyed or looted, but the defenders still held the hall itself, Cavern Hole, the kitchens, and a small indoor well that kept them from thirst and enough stocked food to sustain them for a little while.

The doors still held, but just barely. Axes still hacked at the wood, but the oak, which had been cut thick enough to keep out a deep winter's chill, did nothing but splinter and shake. Macepaw had ordered them to be burned, but the rains had come and doused any attempts at scorching the gate. The axes stopped their work every night at dusk and resumed at dawn, the rhythmic of blades striking home ringing throughout Great Hall. Most of the maids, children, and older beasts had been moved into Cavern Hole while the hall was reinforced with improvised barricades and defenses. It had been four days since Shiloh had seen that seemingly endless horde on the dusty horizon, and it felt like four months.

He flinched as a massive bang echoed throughout the hall. The enemy trebuchets were active again, throwing huge chunks of stone and debris at the abbey. Thankfully, it seemed as if Macepaw had run out of tar and hay. Otherwise, no amount of rain could have quenched the fires those missiles would have caused. Dust fell from the ceiling, making him cough. A diminutive figure sat beside him, and Shiloh turned to see Harsk, clutching his bow and sword. "Mornin', mate. Still kickin', I see."

Shiloh offered a weary grin. "Sure enough, lad. I'm not going to give these bastards the satisfaction of killing me just yet."

The young ferret grunted. "Aye, well, they might have different plans."

The sound of another boulder striking home silenced them, each listening for a scream that would signify another casualty. None came. "You think Thorben ever made it t' that mountain place?"

Shiloh rested his head against the wall. "I don't know, lad. I just don't know. Even if he did, they still wouldn't be here for another three, four days. Maybe, if..." He didn't finish the sentence; he didn't need to. They both knew that the Abbey couldn't hold for another four days. There were just too many of the enemy, and not enough defenders. Shiloh knew that one more assault could finish them once and for all.

The hours went by, with nothing but the thumping and crashing of the trebuchet's projectiles to break the eerie silence. The dull, amber light of early evening was just beginning to cut through the smoke that was constantly choking the air outside the empty window panes when a strange noise jerked Shiloh from a restless sleep. At first he didn't recognize the sound, but suddenly he was on his feet and shouting for Harsk to get up. It was the sound of clashing steel, of swinging blades and shields beating together. The Abbey's defenders were already moving to the windows, peering between the boards they had placed as meager protection. Shiloh jostled one of them aside and looked out towards the Abbey's lawn and woodland beyond.

It was a battle; with the silver streaks of weapons flashing in the pale light and the growing shouts and screams cutting into the former silence. He watched, astonished, as a smaller force collided with the encampment just outside Redwall, somehow driving the vermin back. The vermin inside the abbey's walls were starting to run out towards the field where the slaughter was taking place, some of them abandoning their positions just for a chance to fight. It was then, above the roar and clangor of battle, that a war-cry reached the defenders.

"Eulaliaaaa! Long Patrol, forward!"

Shiloh couldn't believe his ears. "It's them!" Somebeast shouted with the joy of a beast knowing that their salvation was almost at hand. "It's the Long Patrol!" A shout of exhilaration swept through the defenders as the battle raged on, the two sides locked together in savage combat. Even as the Redwallers watched, more and more of Macepaw's troops left the abbey to join their comrades outside the walls. Arrows began to flicker out from inside the Great Hall, most serving to drive the vermin further away.

Abbot Michael appeared, his sharp features lined with fatigue from the past few days. "Are they attacking again?"

Hardly hearing his own voice, Shiloh turned back. "It's the Long Patrol, they're here!"

The mouse sprung into action almost immediately. "Archers to the second story, get ready to cover the Patrol! I want those doors unbarred as soon as it's safe. We aren't leaving those hares out there to fight alone."

Shiloh dashed to the nearest stairs, taking them two at a time and finding a window where the boards had already been ripped away. He had an arrow on the string and drawn before his eyes had settled on a target, though he found one quickly enough. A rat grunted and fell as a shaft sprouted from behind his shoulder. A weasel gurgled and flopped to the ground, coughing and choking with a bodkin through his neck. Now the last remaining enemy within the abbey's ramparts were running, not to battle, but from the sudden deadly rain of arrows.

The lawns were cleared in mere moments, vermin felled left and right by iron-tipped shafts. The moment the grass was clear of the enemy, Michael ordered Great Hall's doors opened to unleash the Redwallers. Some chose to stay behind and shoot arrows from the walls, but Shiloh wanted revenge for the days of constant terror. He drew his sword, slung his bow, and joined the growing crowd of beasts assembling on the lawns to bring havoc to their panicking enemies.

Some of the vermin hadn't yet fled towards the sounds of fighting and turned to face the sudden threat from the Abbey. But there were no more than a dozen of them and almost two hundred Redwallers, woodland scouts, and other fighters flooding out to destroy their enemies. Macepaw's troops bled and died, painting the grass scarlet as the blades rose and fell. Shiloh knocked aside a sword lunge with a contemptuous ease and rammed his own blade into the weasel's gullet. He died as the archer ripped the weapon free and turned to face a new foe.

In a matter of moments, a dozen vermin were slaughtered. Shiloh watched as a number of fighters, mostly Rothgarr's squirrels, ran towards the growing battle on the field outside Redwall's gates. Macepaw's troops had formed a number of shield walls, but the lightning-quick Long Patrol hares darted back and forth, side to side, stinging and biting at the vermin, picking them off one by one. And now they faced a new threat to their flank.

Shiloh picked up a fallen shield, praying that it didn't show the enemy insignia of a silver mace, and stopped Harsk by tripping him with an outstretched paw. The young ferret had been running full-tilt towards the fight, sword drenched in scarlet. He looked up at Shiloh with a disgruntled look on his face. "Wot'd ye do that fer?"

"So you wouldn't go and get yourself killed," he said, picking up another shield and tossing it to Harsk. "Here, take this. Keep the arm straps tight, cover your body and don't let it go. Now stay close to me, and we'll help turn this fight."

Grinning like a fiend, Harsk followed the fox as they rushed out of the main gates. Shiloh took a moment to survey the scene of mass chaos ahead. Macepaw's troops had been driven back to their camp where they had formed their battle lines. They were assembled into two shield walls, one facing north towards the lethal hares, and a much smaller one that faced west, towards the abbey and the sudden rush of abbey-dwellers and militia fighters. "We'll break them there," he said, gesturing to the thinner, weaker flank where he could hear Rothgarr bellowing his defiance. "Stick close, lad."

They covered the distance, just over a bowshot, and joined the rear ranks where spears and long axes were bashing into enemy shields, weapons, and bodies. He waded through the melee until he reached the front rank, catching a hatchet blow with the shield and slicing underneath its rim to bury his blade in an unprotected ankle. He saw the beast fall, took a pace forward, knocked away another blow, and kicked his fallen opponent in the throat to leave him choking in the dust. The world around him was a maelstrom of ringing steal and hideous screaming, but he noticed almost none of it. The fear he had felt before was gone, replaced with the distant joy and sense of utter calm that took hold during a fight. It was the sword-song, the unearthly power that turned a fighter into a killer. Foes seemed to be moving underwater, slow and sluggish, unable to answer Shiloh's flashing blows.

He grinned as his heavy blade snapped a spear-shaft, saw its holder's eyes go wide, and drove the sword into the ferret's gut. Shiloh never heard his victim's pitiful scream, only his shouts of triumph and the clang of steel on steel. This was real fighting; not the duels and chivalrous combat celebrated in the poems and songs of old. This was an orgy of blood. God damn them all and the devil take them.

A thunderous crash made him turn. At first all he saw was a blur of silver and gray followed by a sudden burst of scarlet in the air. The crash came again, and he watched as a mouse's head seemed to burst into a shower of blood and jelly. It was then that Shiloh saw the spikes, the metal ball, and the monstrous armored paw that gripped the weapon.

It was Krieger Macepaw.

The elation Shiloh had felt moments before was replaced with a sudden hatred, a rage that flared in him like a raging fire. He could see the weasel grinning, baring his teeth as his weapon dealt another savage blow to send an otter reeling with half his skull crushed. This was the beast who was at fault for every moment of his earthly suffering since that fateful day they had spotted the abbey. He had killed Shiloh's friends, his soldiers, and made him suffer to the point where Shiloh had begged for death to take him. And now he was here in the batte-line.

It seemed as if an entire half of their line collapsed as Krieger waded into the foray, swinging his mace and cackling with each death. Beasts shrank away from his awesome power while the enemy shield wall pressed forward, pushing Shiloh and his comrades further back. But the fox didn't notice any of that. Instead he shoved and bulled his way through the flood of bodies towards the gleaming set of armor, roaring like a madbeast. "Macepaw! Macepaw!" He clawed and punched his way through, pulled by an unstoppable force to face this monster down.

And suddenly he was there, mere paces from Shiloh who had to lunge in order to avoid being cleaved by the massive spiked ball that missed him by a paw's breadth to bury itself in the ground. With a speed betrayed by his size, Krieger recovered and swung again, not recognizing the fox who darted in and out, catching blows on his shield and cringing from each impact. It wasn't until he saw the lines of scarred flesh running down the beasts' arms did he roar his challenge. "I'll kill you proper this time, bastard!"

Shiloh had no time, let alone breath, for insults. He leapt back to avoid a savage swing that would have taken his head from his shoulders and returned a blow, glancing the blade off a heavy gauntlet. "I'll slaughter the lot of you! I'll kill this damned abbey, do you hear me?!" Macepaw's eyes were glowing red as he swung left and right, determined to crush this insolent fox that had caused him so much trouble. "Come here, you whore!"

Shiloh knew that while Krieger still held that mace, there wasn't a beast fast enough to kill him. Even a glancing blow from that terrible weapon was a death sentence. He began to panic until something caught his eye; the mace had a wooden handle, wrapped in leather. Only the last few inches of the grip were metal. On the next savage blow, Shiloh did the unthinkable and stepped forward, inside the blow, and swung his blade in a swift overhead chop.

The wood split like parchment, cracking with an audible bang that echoed across the field. Macepaw stumbled forward, put off-balance by the sudden loss of the weight at the end of his paw. Shiloh saw his chance and took it, swinging the blade in a wild arc that opened up Macepaw's cheek with a sudden cascade of red down his already spattered armor. The weasel roared, twisting away from the blow while dragging the longsword at his belt free. "You worm!" He shrieked, voice garbled by the blood filling his mouth. "You filthy maggot!"

Macepaw attacked with naught but pure savagery, driving the fox back with arm-numbing slashes that splintered the fox's shield like a bundle of twigs. He was vaguely aware of Harsk standing next to him, the ferret using his own shield to try and absorb some of the force. Macepaw lunged at Shiloh and slipped in a puddle of blood and viscera, his sword point hitting low and glancing off Shiloh's shield. He recovered, but not in time. The short, heavy sword took him in the shoulder, biting through the armor links to leave a bloody gouge. This only served to enrage the already maddened weasel, who screamed in an unearthly wail and swung his blade again.

Shiloh knew this had been coming. He could see the rage growing on his enemy's face, waiting for a chance to unleash his fury on this insolent fox. Now, there was no skill in that cut. It was just a blind swing that was intended to split Shiloh like a cord of firewood from shoulder to hip. And so it was easy enough to duck the blow, watch as the gleaming blade sunk into the ground almost up to its hilt, and lunge forward.

Macepaw made a short coughing sound as Shiloh's blade took him in the throat, driving through mail, flesh, muscle and bone to leave three inches of dripping blade protruding from behind Krieger's neck. He blinked a few times, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish as blood poured down the blade to soak Shiloh's paw. He gurgled, trying to form a curse as his throat filled until streams of red poured out from his gaping maw. And then, with a sudden shiver, he collapsed onto the sodden ground with a crash.

Shiloh, heaving for breath and flecked with blood, ripped his sword free with a grunt. "_Til Helvete, Dritsekk."_

It was then he realized that Macepaw's line had collapsed. Redwallers sprinted past him, screaming and waving bloody weapons as they pursued the last of the enemy troops. He was alone on a field of the dead and dying. The groans and cries of the wounded were already beginning to go numb in his ears when he turned to inspect the ground around him.

And saw a small figure stretched out on the trampled grass beside him.

Shiloh's heart seemed to stop for the briefest of seconds. The small beast still clutched a broken and splintered shield, sword lying nearby as his breaths came in short, wheezing gasps. Shiloh took two paces and dropped to his knees beside the beast, taking one of its small paws in his own.

Harsk's eyes opened briefly to look up at him. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. "Did we win?" The young ferret spoke in a near-whisper.

Shiloh offered him a weak smile, trying not to stare at the dark red stain and torn flesh just below his friend's ribs. "We beat 'em good, mate. Don't you worry, we did it."

The ferret managed something resembling a wan grin before wincing. "It hurts," he whispered, grimacing as another bolt of pain racked his body. "It really hurts."

"I know, mate, but we're gonna get you fixed up real soon, alright?" Shiloh forced himself to stay calm and laid a paw on Harsk's shoulder. "Just stay still, everything's going to be alright."

Harsk began to sob quietly, tears streaking down his face. "I'm sorry," He said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I should've fought better, I should..."

Shiloh cradled his friend's head in his paws, not aware of the tears that were flowing from his own eyes. "Don't say that, mate. You fought like a soldier, you did great." He kept one paw holding Harsk's head up while the other gripped his paw. "You fought well."

Harsk blinked, eyelids fluttering. "I'm scared, mate. I don't...I..."

"Shhhh, it's okay, lad, it's alright." He held Harsk as young one cried, his breathing slowly starting to weaken. "I'm right here."

He watched as Harsk's eyes closed, and the rising and falling of his chest slow. His friend let out one last breath, seemed to struggle for one more, and then stopped.

Shiloh, left alone on a field of the dead and dying, cradled the ferret and wept.

The Long Patrol hadn't come from Salamandastron. Thorben and Eleyna had only been traveling for two and a half days when they ran into a full brigade of the hares on a routine patrol near the border between Mossflower and the sand dunes that marked the beginning of the badger's territory. After hearing the information the two squirrels had given him, Colonel Abernathy had ordered all two hundred and fifty hares to the full march, covering the ground in a matter of days. They had spotted the abbey the day before their assault, but the colonel insisted on waiting until the next day while a proper reconnaissance was made. Thorben knew that the abbey could hold out for at least a few more days after he had seen the state of Macepaw's army and their attempts at starving or burning the Redwallers out had failed, and so had sided with the Colonel.

Macepaw's troops had been utterly unprepared for the attack. All of their attention had been focused on breaching the Abbey, and so were caught unaware as a full brigade of trained Long Patrol hares had smashed into their exposed flank. Scores died before they even realized what was happening, and their defenses, when they were finally arranged, had been hasty at best. The vermin in the abbey had turned to face the new threat from the north and so had exposed themselves to the Redwallers. And after Macepaw was killed, the horde did what came naturally and fled. With their leader dead and their army cut to pieces, they turned east and ran.

The hares had suffered minimal casualties, only thirteen dead and just over two score wounded. Out of the hundred or so beasts that left the abbey to attack their confused enemy, over thirty had been killed and twice that number wounded.

Thorben had volunteered to fight with the hares, putting himself with the other archers. Most had shorter, lighter bows meant for travel, and they were astonished at the range and power of the squirrel's bow. He had loosed at least three sheaves of arrows, seventy-two shafts, and knew for a fact that most had been effective. He had watched mail shredded like cheesecloth and fully armored beasts hurled back with the savage force of each strike. But in the end, like all battles, it came to paw-to-paw combat and Thorben had joined the front ranks, swinging a borrowed claymore with a deadly coldness.

The squirrel wandered the field, searching for any plunder that he could strip off the dead. He left the hares, Redwallers, and other woodlanders to their peace, but all of Macepaw's troops were fair game. More than once he went to loot a corpse and found it still alive, twitching and gasping. A short knife thrust usually finished the job.

He had stood up after recovering a scratched helmet when he noticed a solitary figure among the corpses, clutching a bundle to his chest. It was hard to tell who it was, as the air was filled with smoke from the burning enemy camp. Thorben squinted, saw the gnarled ears and bush-like tail and whooped in delight. "Shiloh! Shiloh, mate! You crazy, lucky, blessed son of a saint, I knew they couldn't..."

Thorben stopped mid-sentence as Shiloh walked towards him. The fox was sheeted with red, but there was something in his red-rimmed eyes that made him pause. And then, as his friend neared, Thorben saw that it wasn't a bundle he carried, but a body, small, like that of a child.

"No," he whispered, almost to himself. He dropped the helmet as his arms went limp to hang by his sides. "Oh saints above, please no. No, no, no..."

Shiloh was weeping; his shoulders heaved with the sobs that stole his breath and made his eyes run with tears. He got to within three paces of Thorben and collapsed to his knees on the bloody soil. Thorben knelt by his friend and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, both of them unable to stop the tears. Shiloh still held Harsk's body in his arms as another figure stood over them. "I'm so sorry, my friends."

Shiloh looked up at Abbot Michael, his usually impeccable robe dotted with red. He knelt in front of the two and laid a gentle paw on Harsk's forehead. He seemed to be deep in thought for a few moments before speaking softly. "We can bury him in the abbey. There's a cherry tree underneath the wall, I think..."

He was stopped by a shaking of the fox's head. "No offense, father," Shiloh said, his voice raw and rasping. "But Harsk wasn't a Redwaller. He wouldn't want to be buried somewhere that wasn't his home."

The abbot nodded understandingly. "And where was home for him?"

Shiloh looked out towards the trees of Mossflower, where the oaks and evergreen still held their leaves, swaying in the gentle wind. "Out there. That's where he would want to be."

It was almost sunset by the time they had finished burying Harsk. Shiloh and Thorben dug a grave with shovels and pickaxes, picking a spot between two oak trees where the sun shone through. They could hear the river flowing nearby, sliding over rocks and sand. The air was still warm, with just the slightest hint of smoke on the wind as they lowered the young archer into his grave, wearing a full coat of mail, helmet, sword, and with his bow and arrow bag in his grip.

An archer's burial, despite how they lived, was a solemn affair. There was an unspoken agreement between yeobeasts to always watch out for the other, since they knew beasts of a higher station never would. That was why their friends felt privileged to take part in the ceremony. Even Rothgarr was there, offering Shiloh a brief nod of acknowledgement, as if he knew what the archer was suffering through. Eleyna was there, along with Abbot Michael.

There was an unusual practice for archer's burials. Always looting the battlefield for weapons, gear, and food to stay alive, it was custom to sacrifice something of value to their fallen friend. This funeral was no different.

Thorben placed a flask of cognac and a gold medallion in the grave, promising him with a cracked and broken voice it was the best liquor he could ever hope for. Eleyna wrapped an emerald green sash around his paw, embroidered with gold thread. Rothgarr gave up one of his personal hatchets, tucking the weapon into the archer's belt. Father Michael offered a bottle of the abbey's best ale and a chiseled pendant of red sandstone, showing a crossed arrow and sword.

Shiloh went last. He knelt by the grave, paws folded in front of him for a few moments. "You fought well, mate. Heaven knows, if they won't let you through the pearled gates you'll probably just fight your way through anyway." And then, he slipped something from his pocket and laid it in his friend's lifeless grip. It was Shiloh's knife, still in its weathered sheath with the aged and cracked birch handle showing. "Use it well," He said one last time before crossing himself and standing.

He watched as the grave was filled in, looking at Harsk's face as though his eyes would suddenly open. But they never did, and he turned away as the last shovelful of dirt was pushed in. The sun was finally slipping below the horizon, turning the western skies a dark violet, shot through with the last tinges of afternoon scarlet.

Father Michael came to stand by Shiloh. "I'm truly sorry about Harsk," he said softly. "I know he was a good friend to you and Thorben."

"He shouldn't have been here with us," Shiloh said after a few moments of silence. "He should be with his parents, learning a trade and starting a family. But we took it from him." He hung his head.

Michael was confused. "What do you mean?"

Shiloh looked at the ground as he spoke. "We raided a village three seasons before we came here. They had a militia and fought back, so we killed them. Harsk's parents were there, at least his father was. I never knew about his mother." A thin smile crossed his lips. "The little bastard tried to fight us, too. Came at us with a club and nearly knocked Thorben's teeth out. We ended up taking him with us and taught him how to shoot a bow." The smile faded again. "I wish we had just left him there. All we could bring him was evil."

The Abbot looked at him plaintively. "Tell me something, Shiloh. Do you think of yourself as evil?"

He had no answer. There was no denying the atrocities he had committed; burning villages, killing hundreds, not all of them soldiers, and sinning like he was one of the devil's own. His paws were soaked in blood, and his soul, he knew, was forever marred. Salvation seemed very, very far away.

"I don't know, father." He said, turning to walk back to the abbey. "I just don't know."

Colonel Abernathy, the commanding officer of the Long Patrol brigade that had saved the abbey, was far from pleased to meet Shiloh. He looked askance at the fox's ragged appearance, tattered mail coat, and bow. There was hardly anything separating this vermin from the next, the colonel thought. Abernathy was a middle-aged hare, with gray and white fur flecked with bits of brown. He had arms built like tree trunks, legs like rods of twisted iron, and a scarred face that seemed to be cut out of granite. He carried a saber and javelin, and had a personality tougher than the iron in his weapons.

When he learned of what Shiloh, Thorben, and the young Harsk had done for the abbey, however, his attitude changed somewhat. He treated Thorben more warmly than Shiloh, on account of him being a woodlander, but once Michael told him the tale of what happened he seemed to accept the fox's presence, even chiding him jovially on the poor state of his appearence.

"Fur out of flippin' regulations, rust on the armor, an' by the stars, look at the mess on that surcoat! If you were one of my troops I'd have you washin' and cleanin' until your bloody paws fell off, wot wot!"

Shiloh grew to like the Colonel, even if many of his subordinates still eyed him warily and murmured under their breath about the vermin helping defend the abbey. But even they softened their stances somewhat when they noticed the fox bow his head respectfully when the coffins bearing the dead Long Patrol hares passed by, and how he joined them for the funeral that same night. Theirs was a much more formal affair than Harsk's. There were tearful salutes, a full squad of musicians, and the usual rigor of Long Patrol pomp and circumstance. Shiloh did his best to keep up with the ceremony, trying his best not to offend any of the steely-eyed hares. When it was over, however, the hares showed their jovial sides. Abbot Michael had laid out a welcome feast, as good a one as could be managed after rationing their food for so long. The Long Patrol dug in with a ferocity that astonished the archer.

The next morning came with heavy fog and hangovers for many of the beasts who had partaken of the abbey cellars the night before. Shiloh was working off a slight headache with his ritual morning target practice, starting at fifty paces and working out to two hundred. He used a sack of hay over which a scratched and dented breastplate was fixed. It was one of the many pieces of armor they had recovered after the battle, though this particular plate was too damaged to be of any use. So now the fox drove arrow after arrow into the cheap steel, listening to the distinctive bang of the needle-tipped bodkins as they punched through the metal.

"A powerful weapon, I must say." Shiloh stopped halfway through nocking an arrow to the string and turned to address Colonel Abernathy. The officer, dressed in his full uniform of tunic, kilt, and beret, moved to stand next to Shiloh. "May I?" He asked, reaching out a paw. "I used to draw a bow in my time as a soldier."

Shiloh tried to resist a grin as he handed the weapon over. "Absolutely, sir. Have at it."

Abernathy took the bow and flexed the string a few inches, eyebrows raised as he realized the strength in the bent yew stave. He drew it halfway, teeth clenching as he tried to haul back the cord. Slowly, the hempen string went past his nose, then his chin, and finally to the ear where he held it for a split second before gradually letting it slacken. "Good Lord above," he said after handing the bow back, "but that's a mighty stiff piece of timber, wot wot! Nothing like the ol' sticks an' strings we had back in my bally day."

Shiloh kept up the conversation as he plucked another arrow from the dozen he had stuck point-down in the turf and laid it across the stave. "It's a warbow, alright. Four seasons old and still good as ever." He winced as the string whipped across his forearm, still watching the target as the arrow buried itself just above the armor's neckline to jut out from the back of the hay bag.

"So the same bow you carried against the Long Patrol three seasons ago, I imagine?"

Shiloh turned sharply, watching the hare warily. He didn't have a sword with him, and the Colonel could undoubtedly kill him with nothing but his bare paws. But there was no threat in his gray eyes, and there was even a hint of a grin playing about the corners of his mouth.

"Aye, I commanded that platoon, laddie buck." Abernathy tucked his paws behind his back and strolled back and forth on the grass, speaking as if nothing were the matter. "I was a sergeant, leading his first platoon on a patrol on the borders of the mountain when we ran into your troupe."

Shifting awkwardly from paw to paw, Shiloh tried his best to sound sincere. "I'm sorry for any hares you lost that day, Colonel."

Abernathy waved a paw dismissively. "'twas a fair fight, and I'll not be denying it. A young blood-an'-vinegar Long Patrol sergeant on his first mission, a group of mercenaries offering combat, what else could've happened, wot wot! I lost my share of troops, I can't deny that. But by Jove we made you lot work for it, didn't we?" There was an undeniable glint in Abernathy's eye.

Shiloh offered a small smile. "Aye, that you did, sir." Macepaw's troops had come away from that fight reeling, battered, and bloodied. All for no more than half a dozen enemy casualties.

"You were there, I take it?"

Shiloh nodded. "I was, sir."

The colonel chuckled. "Then let me tell you something, laddie buck, that was some fine shooting I saw! I took what I think was one of your bloody arrows on my shield and damn near knocked me clean off my paws! Didn't kill anybeast, mind you, but sent four beasts to the infirmary and made every one of my hares swear to cut off your string fingers if they ever caught your wily tail. Not that I'd let them do it now, but I thought you should know."

"It's nothing I'm unaccustomed to, colonel. I've suffered far worse." He unrolled a sleeve to reveal the thick bands of scar where Krieger had tortured him.

Abernathy flinched at the sight, but held his tongue and decided not to ask where the archer received the wounds. Instead, he stopped his pacing and looked Shiloh dead in the eye. "But I'm not here to talk about that little scuffle. You see, laddie, there's a reason Redwall was attacked."

"It was a contract." Shiloh said, going to retrieve his arrows from the armor plate. "Somebeast heard that the abbey had plunder, and they wanted it."

"Did you ever wonder, friend, who signed for that work?"

That made Shiloh pause. It was true, they had never learned who had asked for the siege. Nobeast was stupid enough to ask Macepaw himself, and to most of them none of it mattered. These were mercenaries who would have attacked hell itself if there was enough coin to be had for it.

"No," he said slowly, "we never did find out."

Abernathy nodded. "As I suspected. I ask because Salamandastron is under similar circumstances, I fear."

Shiloh spun around in shock. "You've been attacked?"

The hare shook his head sadly. "More than attacked, besieged. My contingent of troops was the only one who managed to slip away before the mountain was surrounded, by land and sea. I think that whoever wanted Redwall destroyed has the same intentions for our bally home."

"I don't mean to be patronizing, colonel," Shiloh said, "but...how are you sure it isn't coincidence? No offense, but Salamandastron isn't exactly the best friend to many vermin in these parts. How do we know that they didn't just decide to attack while they knew Redwall was under assault and couldn't render aid, take advantage of the situation?"

"Because," Abernathy said darkly, "There's no less than a dozen pirate captains and crews who've just up and decided to forget their differences long enough to stop trying to slit each other's throats to try and cut ours. They've joined together and blocked the ocean, and their crews, along with what we gather to be other vermin gangs, have blocked all of the land routes. Somebeast hired them to do it, laddie buck, and paid them well."

Both of them fell silent as the abbey bells called for the start of the day. After the clangor had ceased, Shiloh unstrung his bow and hefted the stave on one shoulder. "What are you asking me to do, Colonel?"

Abernathy gestured to his bow. "We need fighters, lad, lots of 'em. I've already proposed the idea to that friend Rothgarr of yours, and he volunteered his scouts for the job, but there's only so many he can give up. I'd feel a whole blinkin' lot safer if I knew we had some artillery on our side."

"If you didn't notice, sir, I'm short on troops myself," Shiloh allowed a hint of sarcasm to creep into his voice. "I don't know how much help a half-mad squirrel from the northlands and a mercenary fox would be."

"Your lousy tail on its own might not be much use," Abernathy joked, "but that pile of muck 'twixt your ears just might. You've lead troops before, am I correct?"

Shiloh raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "A few squads of archers, yes, but..."

"Believe me, lad, I've platoon leaders that look like they just stopped suckling. Any experience we can get is better than nothing."

"If you're asking me to join the Long Patrol, Colonel, I'll have to say no." Shiloh tapped his bowstave. "I've got a feeling that there's quite a few hares that might not be too thrilled to learn what we did to the long patrol in that border fight."

Abernathy shrugged. "Join? Far from it, my boy. Just consider it another contract to be fulfilled. You help train and lead troops, and I'll make sure that the badger lord rewards you in the end."

"The last time I signed a contract I got beatings and a piece of red-hot iron across my flesh as compensation. What's stopping your badger from skinning me alive once the mountain is safe?"

The hare bridled somewhat at the presumption of his commander's integrity, but kept his voice level. "Lord Brookstone might be a fearsome fighter, but he's a fair beast. He'll want to acknowledge any beast that helped him in an hour of need, even if it's a vermin."

Shiloh ignored the barb and drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, a habit when he was thinking. "Have any of the Redwallers volunteered?"

"Only a few," Abernathy sighed. "Mostly just a few young 'uns with fancies of glory and honor in their empty heads, and a couple of Rojak's otters. Nothing substantial. Father Michael is reluctant about letting any of his congregation go into battle, with good reason I fear."

Shiloh stayed quiet for a few moments. The fog was starting to burn away as a bright morning sun worked its way over the distant horizon. The red sandstone walls were still wet with dew, turning the bricks a pale scarlet. There were new cracks and missing pieces of wall, alongside the countless others caused by seasons of harsh weather, age, and warfare. Shiloh wondered to himself how many enemy troops had broken themselves on those walls in the past, repelled by such an unlikely adversary. Shiloh marveled at how these seemingly peaceful creatures, dedicated to a simple, fulfilling life, had repelled one of the most dangerous armies to ever cross its dusty path.

_It'd be a good place to settle down, _Shiloh thought to himself. _Peace and quiet, somewhere warm to sleep at night, some decent meals..._

He rubbed the grip of the yew bow on his shoulder. Sometimes, just before the tensed stave let the arrow fly with savage force, he could almost feel the weapon quivering with excitement, yearning to let its deadly message go. And with that message, Shiloh knew, he had taken many lives and made many tears.

But it was part of his story.

"Give me soldiers, Colonel," he said, extending a paw, "and I'll get your mountain back."

Abernathy smiled and shook his paw. "Let's give the bastards something to worry about, eh?"

Father Michael found Shiloh in the dormitory where he had been staying. The fox's haversack was sitting on the bed, with two sheaves of arrows nearby while the fox ran another set of shafts between his fingers, checking their feathers and making sure the heads were secure. The mouse folded his paws inside the sleeves of his habit and sighed. "You accepted the Colonel's offer, then?"

Shiloh didn't even look up. "Aye, I did."

"I can't say that surprises me, though I had prayed otherwise."

"What? Why?" Shiloh was surprised, looking up from his work.

Michael sat down in a nearby chair in the corner of the room. "I was much like you once, Shiloh, very much like you. I wanted nothing more than to fight for my lord, to bring honor and fame to the Long Patrol. I never shied from a fight, and our enemies learned to fear our name. I loved every second of it." He was silent now, staring into space.

"So why give it up?" Shiloh asked, stuffing the arrows back into the bag. "I've no intention to."

"Because I found peace." Michael saw the skeptical look on his face and explained. "I had known war for so long, that when I found what was offered here at Redwall, it was like a new beginning. I'd never seen anything like it before. It was something I had been missing for a long, long time."

He watched as Shiloh stood and hefted his pack. "Sorry to disappoint you, father, but I've got a job to do. And I'm not going to stop until it's finished."

"Even if it means killing, my son?"

Shiloh stopped at the door. "Especially if it means killing."

Thorben met him at the bottom of the stairs, along with Rothgarr and Rojak. The otter crossed his burly arms and stared at him. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," Shiloh said, "Just going over some things. Is everybeast ready to move?"

Rothgarr nodded. "Abernathy's leavin' two score of his hares here as a security force, an' I've got thirty-four able bodied fighters. Rojak's got a squad of ten." He couldn't resist a disgruntled expression. "Not much to fight with."

Shiloh tapped his nose. "And that's why they won't be expecting us to fight at all. Trust me, lads, by the time this is over, those bastards at Salamandastron are going to be bleeding all over the sand."

Rojak adjusted the massive claymore he wore on a thick strap over his shoulders and picked up his travel-pack. "I hope yore right, fox. Otherwise, they're gonna have to scrape what's left of us off the dirt with a spade."

Outside on the abbey lawn, where over two hundred Long Patrol hares, Redwallers, Mossflower Scouts, and other fighting beasts had gathered, they were met by Colonel Abernathy. The old hare had forsaken much of his ceremonial garb in favor of the light marching gear that most of his troops wore. "Spiffin' day for a rousin' march, eh lads?"

Shiloh pretended to scrutinize the other hares' gear, but in reality he watching their eyes. Most had a look of indignation that a vermin would be inspecting them, some didn't seem to care, and a number glared at him with a searing hatred that Shiloh had forced himself to get used to. Many of the more hot-headed recruits were still convinced, after hearing the tales from their parents and fellow troops, that all vermin were the spawn of evil and deserved nothing more than a blade across their throats. Now they glared back at the fox, some going so far as to spit in his direction. He ignored them and turned back to the Colonel. "You were right, Colonel. I'm surprised most of 'em aren't back at home sucking their mother's teats."

There was a collective growl from the assembled hares, along with a few shouted threats, but Abernathy just chortled and clapped Shiloh on the back. "You're fast on your way to making friends, I see. Alright, you horrible lot!" He addressed the hares. "If any of you doe-eyed beauties ever want to see home again, you'll listen to this bally fox right here, you understand me? He's got more fightin' skill in his claw than most of you useless cads have in your whole body. Am I clear?"

Some of the crowd mumbled something akin to an agreement, but most remained silent, still trying to murder Shiloh through harsh looks alone. Colonel Abernathy wasn't impressed and drew himself up to his full height, roaring loud enough to scare the birds out of the bell tower. "I said, am I clear?!"

This time a sharp "Yes, sir!" echoed through the crowd. It was clear that their fear and respect of the Colonel was overpowering their desire to rip Shiloh limb from limb. The graying hare turned back to Shiloh. "Ready to march whenever you are, laddie buck!"

He turned back to look at the entrance to Great Hall, where many of the Redwallers had gathered to bid them farewell. Abbot Michael was there, as was Eleyna, who had volunteered to stay behind and help care for the many wounded that were still residing in the abbey's infirmary. He watched as she waved to her father and seemed to blow a kiss to Thorben, who waved meekly in return. Shiloh grinned and nodded to the Colonel. "No time like the present, Colonel. Column, march!" He roared the last two words in his best sergeant's voice, not unlike the one he had used seemingly so long ago leading a band of archers under Macepaw's command.

And now, as the gates were opened before them and they turned onto the dusty path, they marched to an unknown fate and untold dangers. He was scarred, tired, and terrified of what was to come. And yet he was free.

For he was riding to a new enemy and a new land, where he and his bow could make war.


End file.
